


The Golden Floor

by Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst, DanceHawk, Dancer!Jim, Dancer!Ross, DarkHawk, Delicious muscly boys wearing very little clothing, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Attack, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Era, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Voyeurism, brief descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-03-15 21:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/pseuds/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee
Summary: Ross Poldark has it all. A lifetime of hard work has given a life that he loves and a star that is fast on the rise. But when a new face shows up at the Ballet Company, everything Ross knows for certain is thrown up in the air and he must ask himself what it is that he really wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me that you want to dance  
> I want to feel your pulse on mine  
> Just treat me like a stolen glance  
> To yourself  
> A dark shape on a golden floor  
> A sleeping planet with a molten core  
> From above we'd cut a slow eight shape  
> And much more
> 
>  
> 
> _The Golden Floor - Snow Patrol_

_First_...

  
Ross’s feet fall into place before he’s even opened his eyes. He has no idea when this became habit but he’s been doing it for so long now that he can’t remember beginning a day without it. He takes a deep breath as his heels just brush together and slowly lets it go, allowing his body relax for what he knows will be the last time in hours.

  
_Second_...

  
His feet slide seamlessly apart across the worn linen sheet, hissing as a piece of loose taping around his toe catches in the cover and tugs at the tender skin below it. This time he flexes, a show for no-one, invisible perfect arches in the grey morning light of his bedroom.

  
_Third_...

  
His cue to look up. He blinks at the shadow-washed ceiling, stretching his neck from side to side, his joints crunching and grinding as he goes. His right heel comes to rest in the arch of his left foot, the solid muscles of his calves pressing into each other as he holds the position.

  
_Fourth_...

  
He raises his right foot slowly, a tent in the covers. As a last act of laziness, he yawns and stretches his arms up behind him to grab the pillow under his head, his shoulder greeting the day with a loud pop. He brings his leg up higher, the duvet hanging from his toes as he makes an arc through the air until his knee is level with his face and his head is buried under the fabric, his foot grazing the headboard behind him.

  
_Fifth_...

  
He tenses his stomach and in a flash he’s sitting bolt-upright, bundling the duvet up in his arms and flinging it in a messy ball back down to the bottom of the bed. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and his feet find their place on the floor. Two parallel lines, heel to toe.

It’s almost slow-motion, the way he folds himself in half at his hips until his forehead is tucked against his shins and he grips his ankles with his hands.

 _Count to three_.

His hamstrings fizz with the stretch but the feeling quickly subsides and his body settles, doing what it does every day. What it is conditioned to do.

 

 

  
Traffic rumbles by below the apartment and he straightens up and leans over to peek out of the window, trying to gauge the weather. His room is tiny, barely big enough to contain his bed and clothing rail, but the postage stamp-sized square of bare wood that he stands in is enough for him anyway. He’s rarely ever here, given the amount of time he spends in the studio or on stage. Besides, what the apartment lacks in square-footage it makes up for in headroom. The windows are huge, every room a monument to light with double-height ceilings; even the bathroom, where he finds himself headed now on autopilot.

  
He gasps under the freezing flow of the shower, forgetting as usual to let the water warm up first. He washes quickly, peeling mucky greying tape off his feet and wiping soap from his eyes; singing under his breath as he reaches down for his cock, still half-hard from waking.

  
He considers this as much of a part of his routine as anything else he does. It’s more of a necessity than a desire. He knows how to get the best out of his body – and for him, he trains better when he’s relaxed. It’s a different story when he needs to be on stage. He keeps his hands off himself then, letting the tension build up in him, the drive it gives him when there’s a little more edge in his body chemistry; but right now they are poised on the verge of the September season with still over a week until productions begin, even though it’s rehearsals all day, every day.

  
He absentmindedly rubs one out, letting his mind drift between his rammed schedule for the day ahead and how he probably ought to wax again soon, raking his free hand over the dark curled hair rapidly creeping up his chest.

  
He hates getting rid of it, because frankly it hurts like a fucker; but it always makes Verity cackle with ill-disguised delight when she’s standing over him while he’s covered in hot wax and he’s begging like a baby for her not to rip it off. He draws the line there though, leaving his arms and legs alone, which he always thinks is a strange contrast – delicate ballet shoes and thick, muscled shins covered in dark hair.

  
He realizes he’ll make himself late if he stands daydreaming in the shower all morning, so he reaches round to grab at his ass, digging his fingers in hard into the flesh as he works over himself harder and faster until he tenses and comes into his hand with a soft groan, letting it flood away down the drain before he shuts off the water. He pads out into the hall, not bothering with his towel as he drips and leaves a trail of wet footprints behind him, screwing his eyes shut as he enters the kitchen and flicking water from his hair with his hand.

  
“Ross! Fuck! Clothes!”

  
Verity is perched daintily against the worktop in the kitchen, coffee already in hand. She quickly covers her eyes at the sight of his naked body and flings him a pair of Lycra shorts from the neatly folded pile of laundry next to her.

  
“Shit, I'm sorry. Didn’t know you were up.”

  
Ross tugs them on, though they leave little to the imagination. Verity is hardly a prude and even if she’s seen more flesh than most butchers in her career so far and has no qualms about Ross partnering her while he’s wearing little more than a dance belt they’re still cousins, and there's really no need to go all out.

  
He smiles his thanks and leans round her to make his own coffee. Even here they dance, as much a part of their lives as breathing. It’s not what we do, she’d told him once; it’s what we are. His hand finds her hip and his body flows effortlessly around hers as she pops up onto pointe to reach for a jar in the cupboard above her. Ross rummages in the freezer for a bag of chopped fruit, throwing it into the blender with a handful of oats while Verity adds honey and yoghurt.

  
Their mornings are carefully constructed, even if they keep it relaxed and happy at home. Ross thanks his stars that they’re very rarely required to get up with an alarm, given how awful he is at early starts. Class is at ten sharp, every day, but they both like to get in an hour of Pilates first – as does the rest of the Company.

  
Their home is still a twenty-minute ride on the subway from the Opera house where they are based, but they wouldn’t be able to afford anything so airy if they were further downtown, and this cosy red brick apartment has the elusive third bedroom which they’ve kitted out with a barre and a couple of yoga mats, meaning they can skip trips to the studio on their down days – though Ross inevitably goes in anyway.

  
“Eggs?” he asks after a gulp of coffee. Verity shakes her head into her smoothie and drains it, sliding the glass across the counter toward the sink.

  
“Not today. No time.”

  
She reaches for her keys in the bowl as Ross yawns again and brings his foot up to rest on the work surface, leaning forward along the length of the outstretched limb and frowning as he massages his knee, making a mental note for himself to remind his physio to work on it.

  
“Get your rancid feet off there." Verity wrinkles her nose in mock disgust, batting at Ross’s leg that blocks her way out of the kitchen.

  
“You can talk,” Ross retorts, but he dutifully obeys and leans himself against the counter instead, nodding at her own bare feet, where cracked and bruised nails adorn reddened toes that are haphazardly decorated with grey gummy residue from tape like his own frequently are.

  
“Yeah, well. That’s what you get for dancing on pointe all day,” she shrugs as she slides on her Converse. “Anyway. I want to go in early. Anna slipped and did her Achilles yesterday, looks like she might be out for _Don_.”

  
Verity chews her lip and busies herself with her coat as she lets the news sink in.

  
“Wait, so you… Vee!" Ross takes her hands in his, searching her face as he does. "That’s great! I mean not for Anna, obviously, but – so you’re definitely covering?”

  
“Looks like it.”

  
Her face flushes a light pink, and even though she’s trying not to show it Ross can see how happy she is at finally landing a solo - though of course he knows that it’s not ideal, the way it’s come about, but unfortunately that’s the way things work.

  
He’s never quite got comfortable with the fact that whilst he was able to get her an audition here, she’d taken a demotion from a first to a second soloist when she moved from their home in Oregon to join him at the bigger and more prestigious company. They’d missed each other so much - not just dancing but living with each other - that she’d taken it anyway. She’s always insisted she doesn’t mind, that she’s happy to just be together again and be able to watch Ross finally get the acclaim he deserves; but Ross can’t help but feel bad that she isn’t in the spotlight as much as she ought to be.

She watches Ross calculating if he will get to watch her from the wings. It’s the first big production of the season - _Don Quixote_ \- and he’s cast as Basilio which means he will have pretty much the whole second act off stage. It’s a role he really loves, a dream role for so many dancers even if he feels like he is moving away from the more classical ballets, a feeling which formed a huge part of his decision to leap at the chance to dance in Boston. Still, it’s their bread and butter; and truthfully it’s where he excels.

  
He doesn’t think it’s conceited to say his technical skill is outstanding. He’s aware of his strengths as much as his weaknesses. It’s hard not to be vain in ballet when your entire career is spent in front of a mirror or an audience, every day comparing yourself to the person behind, in front, next to you; and even worse, to yourself; the way you danced yesterday, last week; the way you feel you should be dancing on any given day.

  
Ross knows Anna is unlikely to be out of action for the whole three-week run, but he’s determined to make sure Verity’s opportunity doesn’t go unnoticed. He knows all it takes is for the right person to be watching you on the night and suddenly you find yourself catapulted through the ranks.

  
“I’m so made up for you. You’ll blow them away. I’ll film it for Andrew and everything.”

  
“See you later?" She smiles appreciatively and plants a quick kiss against his cheek. "It’s your turn to make dinner, don’t forget.”

  
“Yeah, yeah,” Ross waves vaguely after her. “Get outta here.”

 

* * *

 

He ploughs through the rest of his breakfast after Verity leaves, not so much out of being in a hurry as being starving. Ross is frequently hungry, though they usually don’t have much time for food at work. He is more or less free to eat what he wants, providing he's sensible and makes sure he has enough fuel to get through the long days. He’s careful, but not to the extent that he can’t be found shoveling down double portions of Kraft mac n’ cheese at 2am after a weekend of performances or fighting over who gets to eat the last chunk of cookie dough in the fridge.

  
He scrabbles round the apartment for the things he needs for the day, shoving them into his backpack before he pulls on some street clothes and walks the three blocks to the subway station. He likes the morning ride on the T, likes people watching; borrowing actions and emotions from grey-faced commuters and young families, storing them away and keeping them in his memory bank to draw on later. He finds it kind of funny that these days he’s more of an actor than a dancer, each part requiring him to play a role, to convey something different.

  
The train pulls away from the station and Ross rests his head against the grimy window behind him, smiling as a small girl opposite him whispers excitedly in her mother’s ear, pointing urgently at the ballet shoes he’s stashed in the elastic straps on the back of his bag which sits on the floor between his feet.

  
It makes Ross laugh to think how much he hated ballet at first. A six-year old Verity had begged her parents to go to dance class, and when her brother Frankie outright refused to go with her Ross was sent along by his Dad as chaperone, much to his horror.

  
He’d stood, eight years old and sulking, a head taller than the sea of girls in fluffy tulle stamping around him. He’d worn baggy shorts and scuffed trainers, but the teacher had wordlessly handed him a pair of pink leather ballet shoes.

  
He made a point of doing it anyway, to prove to his cousin how stupid and beneath him it all was, thinking that maybe if he made it look too easy for him then he wouldn’t have to go back.

  
The music was annoying and the instructions were little better. A constant stream of corrections from the minuscule ballet mistress, pacing the room of plodding kids as she tried her best to at least get them to stand up straight.

  
“ _Pull UP, knees back – square shoulders! Turn out from the **hips** , like this…”_

  
And Ross had found himself astounded when bird-light hands landed on his collarbones, looking round to see that everyone in the class was staring at him.

  
“ _Perfect_ ,” the teacher had said, and despite himself Ross felt the first hot flash of pride surge within him.

  
It had snowballed from there. Within weeks it was him knocking at Verity’s door, yelling at her to hurry up so they wouldn’t be late. For her part, Verity threw herself into it too, desperate to keep up with Ross who was rapidly becoming teacher’s pet. After a few months Ross found he didn’t even mind the music, starting to listen more carefully to take his cue when to move his body from it rather than the teacher. Eventually he decided to embrace it and dragged his Dad along to the dance store to buy some more suitable clothes.

  
Frankie just howled with laughter whenever he saw them practicing in the sunny open space of the sprawling garden, but Ross didn’t care. Dancing gave him the weirdest feeling, as if it was something he just knew how to do all along. It made him feel alive, like he could talk without speaking, something he struggled with at the best of times since his Mom died suddenly when he was seven, withdrawing into himself and pulling away from the large group of friends he’d once had.

  
He tried not to talk about ballet at school but inevitably everyone found out anyway, and by the time he was twelve he was getting into fights almost daily over it. It didn’t help that by then all the guys had started to talk about girls and he was pretty sure he had no fucking idea what they were on about.

  
It took him a long time to catch up with the realization that he might not be straight – not until he was already at ballet academy. He isn’t sure if he was just really slow off the bat or if he tried to push the idea down, confused about whether it was what he really felt or if it was just because everybody expected him to be gay because he danced.

 

  
He remembers the day he sat his Dad down, explaining to him how he’d sneakily auditioned and landed himself a scholarship for a place at the Portland Academy. He’d never seen Joshua look so bewildered, so at sea with the whole idea.

  
“ _Moving away to… dance? You mean like boarding school? Ross, I know it makes you feel better but... you need an education. I thought you wanted to come and work with me and uncle Charlie in the firm?”_

  
He calmly pointed out that they were still expected to do all their academic work too, as well as hours and hours of ballet every week. Ross had felt sorry for his Dad then. After his Mom passed they only had each other, really; and here was Ross asking to move away from home at the age of thirteen and follow into a life that his Dad – as supportive as he was – just couldn’t get his head around.

  
_“No, Dad. That’s what you want. **This** is what I want,_ ” he’d said quietly, picking at the stack of admission papers in front of them on the table.

  
_“But you’re a child. How the heck do you know what you want?_ ”

  
And he’d surprised himself at his boldness, playing a card that he rarely ever used, knowing how unfair it was on both of them. He shoved back his chair and folded his arms defiantly across his chest.

  
_“Mom would have let me go._ ”

  
Joshua had groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  
_“How do you know what your Mom would have done? She’s not here to tell us what she does and doesn’t want for you, Ross.”_

  
“ _My point exactly_ ,” he’d countered, shoving the page with the expectant blank signature line towards his Dad.

 

  
So he’d found himself in the city, dumbfounded to find that there were so many other boys like him. Back home he’d been the only male in the class; here, there were fifteen in his year alone. He’d been lonely at first, finding it hard to adjust to being away from everything he knew, but two years later Verity joined him and Ross by then had learned to enjoy it for what it was, even though he mostly just remembers being absolutely knackered all he time. It had been so physical, the demand for perfection; drill, drill, drill, repeat, repeat; but he’d thrown himself into it, thrived and excelled, watching as almost all of his class were assessed out over the years until he graduated with top grades at the age of eighteen.

  
Then followed three years in San Francisco, working his way up the ranks; a massive shock to the system when he found that serious, sheltered ballet school had done nothing to prepare him for the real world, the endless stream of near-naked bodies and the sheer mental pressure that came with turning professional. The transition from top of the school to bottom of the company was an eye-opener, but Ross had loved the independence that came with not being a student any more, the freedom to choose how to pace himself and when to push himself. Nobody gave a fuck how technically excellent you were – because you sure as hell wouldn’t have been there if you weren’t. It was a relief to exercise some creativity – although it’d be an outright lie to say that every day wasn’t full of comparison and for a lot of people, disappointment.

  
Luckily for Ross, he was in with a good crowd and he loved every minute of it from the second he walked through the studio door. It was here he’d dabbled with nightlife too, not having had much opportunity before; but he quickly learned that he couldn’t work hard and play hard at the same time so he backed off, in no way willing to compromise everything he had worked for and everything he still wanted.

And after that, his heavily classical stage. Two years in the Netherlands, a summer of princes and lovers in Milan – _in more ways than one_ , he thinks, feeling a hot blush spread across his face as he remembers the beautiful stage hand Matteo, tights around thighs and a warm eager tongue in the wings; closely followed by Luca, the spellbinding Florentine principal that had a younger and more impressionable Ross wrapped around his little finger – and his cock.

  
Ross tries not to mix work and play but it’s inevitable. His social life is lacking these days through the sheer amount of time he spends dancing, and it’s hard to meet people out of the immediate sphere of work. He’s slept with people in previous companies but by now he’s learned to try and keep it to dancers in different ranks or technical staff. It’s fairly distracting when a piece requires having someone’s face pressed up against your groin during rehearsal when you’re trying to execute a perfect cambré, and all you can think about is how much you’d like to plough him.

  
Oddly, he never has that problem on stage – too distracted and engrossed in what he is doing to ever feel anything close to desire. Either way, since becoming a principle dancer he’s had so little time for anything but work that he hasn’t really thought about it. He knows plenty of the company do, either casual flings or more serious relationships like Verity and Andrew, though watching the way she misses him now that he’s off for a year’s contract in Lisbon leaves Ross unsure of whether he envies her or not.

 

  
Then finally, unbelievably, the elusive invite to audition as a principal in Boston where he finds himself now at 26, on his third year-long contract with the ballet. He feels like he’s finally grown into himself, comfortable with who he is as a person and a performer. It’s easier for him to relax now and he’s as well known among his peers for his easy-going nature and huge, roaring laugh as he is for his focus and talent.

The train slides out the station and it makes him smile to see a huge advertisement for their next production plastered along the platform. He’s so looking forward to the repertoire this year, a hugely ambitious mix of classic and super-contemporary pieces. Ross had jumped at the chance to work under James Flint, by far the most open-minded and progressive artistic director he’s worked with. He knows a lot of people find him intimidating. The sombre-faced Finnish-American with his grey buzz cut and wire-framed glasses is a man of few words, but Ross is in a privileged position and has spent enough time with him to get to know his sense of humor.

Much to Ross’s amazement – and total embarrassment - Flint has so far arranged with the resident choreographer not one but two short pieces for him: Tormenta, which he performed with Elizabeth last year, and the one they’re currently hashing out in the practice rooms together whenever either of them can spare the time, an all-male contemporary dance that Ross can’t wait to get his friends involved in. He’s well aware he’s had some insanely good luck in his career so far and he’s loved the opportunity to travel, but coming to Boston felt like coming home and he can’t imagine wanting to go anywhere else.

  
The T slides in to its third stop and he spies Maksim waiting on the platform. He gives him a friendly wave and Ross removes his earbuds with a smile as the huge St. Petersburg boy falls into the seat next to him, his endless legs sprawling into the narrow aisle. Ross isn’t short by any means at just a shade under six feet, but with an extra six inches on Ross, Maks is pretty much a giant in the dance world. Sometimes Ross wonders how the heck he can control all that body, but somehow he manages, switching on an effortless fluidity that seems to elude him outside the studio.

  
He’s glad that Maksim has made it through the summer assessment process. He likes him, his sharp-tongue and filthy mind; and they share easy small talk as they near their destination. He hasn’t told anyone aside from Verity, but this year Ross was one of only two principal dancers that wasn’t required to undergo observation as per the norm in between seasons.

  
They already know that Dan is retiring and Artem is transferring back home to the Ukraine, which leaves Ross, Maks, Duncan, Vasily and - much to their annoyance – George. Everyone knows George only got in by merit of his uncle Cary being one of the ballet masters, but he seems to slip through the net every fucking year and it drives Ross nuts. They’ve already met Dan’s replacement, Kaito, but oddly there’s been no word of the seventh spot being filled. Of course, any one of the soloists could be bumped up but Ross can’t help that they would have heard about it by now, given that rehearsals for the first four productions of the season are in full swing and the premiere of Don is just next week.

  
Maks wraps a huge hand round Ross’s shoulder, pulling him into a friendly hug as they leave the train.

  
“Hold me closer, tiny dancer,” he croons in a key that even Ross can’t put a name to. Maks’s heavily-accented voice is so deep when he sings that he even sounds like a bear, and Ross’s laugh echoes off the tiled walls of the stairwell and all the way in to the Opera house above.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your lovely words about the last chapter! Now that most of the background is out of the way, things can start heating up. Hope you enjoy!

It’s the smell that hits Ross first. It always is.

The odour of warm, moving bodies in an enclosed space is never the nicest, hitting them like a physical wall as he pushes the swinging door to the huge, mirror-lined studio open. It’s more than just that; there’s the chalky scent of the floor that always seems to be dusty no matter how many times it’s cleaned, wafts of aftershave and perfume, scuffed leather and chewing gum; a heavy dose of Tiger Balm. Most of all though, to him it’s the smell of ambition, of passion; and it never fails to set Ross on edge, putting a smile on his face as they sling their water bottles down at the side of the room.

  
He shoots a grin at Verity, but the girls are huddled in the corner of the half-filled room fawning over a newly-acquired engagement ring, so he saunters over to the other male principles stretching out against the wall. Maks has already joined them and is busy trying to distract them all, Vasily’s chest-length dreads cascading down his back as he tilts his head up, laughing at a joke Ross doesn’t catch while Ross scrapes his own hair back and twists it up behind his head with the elastic snagged round his wrist. He’d been expecting to have been asked to cut it for _Don_ but Flint gave him the green light to keep it, so for now he lets it grow just long enough that he can tie it up and out of his face.

  
They’re an unusual looking bunch of guys, but these days barely anyone looks at all how people imagine _danseurs_  to be. There are always the classic, lithe and lean figures like Kaito, who gives him a goofy smile as he enters the room behind them; and George, who is already at the barre looking wan and self-important, his frame by far slimmer than those of Ross, Maks and Duncan who work much harder in the gym and have bulked up even more than normal over the last year under the encouragement of John Silver, one of their dance masters.

No-one in the room has an ounce of fat on their bodies, an ode to how hard they work. Even today Ross has seventy-five minutes of class and six hours of rehearsals to get through, not to mention a trip to the physio, a swim and trying to grab something to eat – and that’s without an evening class and performance like there will be almost every day for the next few months after next week.

  
As the room fills with chatting dancers and they begin to warm-up, the rest of their outdoor clothes are flung aside. Everyone has their own preference on what to wear while they work and there’s a crazy array of tights, hot pants, socks, hoodies and singlets; but Ross prefers to dance barefoot and bare chested when he can; his long, strong legs encased in leggings that allow him to see the subtle movement of every muscle, the precise shape he creates with his body.

  
The door swings open and Silver enters with a flourish, clapping his hands above his head as everyone in the room hurries over to take their place at the barres around the edge.

Ross loves working with John. The ballet is nothing without the dancers, but the dancers are nothing without the masters.

  
There’s always something to learn no matter how good you are, and John Silver has the unique combination of being outright hilarious and chilled out, on top of being a generous teacher and talented dancer himself.

He pushes them further than they sometimes think they can go, but he does it in such a way that they will happily spend extra hours working for him - unlike Cary Warleggan.

  
Ross is pretty sure he doesn’t remember the thin Texan having smiled once since he arrived three years ago, and he’s definitely sure he has a special hate for Ross, never failing to criticize something about him and his dancing even if half the time he doesn’t deserve it. Ross takes it on the chin though. Working here means learning here, and for all Cary’s lack of personality, he sees detail in a way that no-one else does, right down to the tiniest positioning of their fingers and the focus of their eyes, and undoubtedly he makes them better performers even if Ross’s tongue usually stings by the end of a session with him from having to bite it so hard.

  
John takes Elizabeth’s hand and pulls her into an impromptu salsa in the middle of the room, spinning her off as he reaches the corner where the large sound system sits. More often than not one of the pianists will accompany them during class, but Ross especially likes the days when Silver has to face off against the stereo. He’s absolutely shit at working it, much to their amusement, but after a moment’s frantic swearing he coaxes it into life. John raps the end of his cane on the floor - more a prop for effect than a necessity - and with a loud “ _Five, six, seven, eight_ …”, their class begins.

  
They fly through the barre work, Ross feeling his body loosen and tune up as they churn out the familiar exercises. Silver calls them into the middle and they fall into their places. There isn't room for all of them at the same time, so half the class slide to the side and hang about by the barres; and the rest take the floor, the principals at the front and lower ranks toward the back of the room. It’s a kind of unspoken arrangement, but it’s this way in every Company that Ross has ever heard of and just a part of the way things work.

There’s usually a lot of watching and waiting in class, taking it in turn in groups to move across the floor, and Silver has got almost all of the principals working on a series of steps together.

  
“To the front, and a two, and a three; a little higher with the back feet please folks,” Silver calls. “Ok, let’s go again please. And…”

  
They begin the sequence, but to his surprise the doors swing apart with a loud bang and a surprised looking young man appears in the opening. His cheeks are flushed pink, like he’s been running; and Ross can only assume he’s a student from the ballet school who’s somehow got himself lost and wound up in the Company section of the building by mistake. _Bit fucking short for a dancer_ , Ross thinks; not to mention uncoordinated, raising his eyebrows as the man seems to trip over his own foot and almost falls into the room.

  
He turns his attention back to his feet, expecting Silver to quickly send him away and continue with the lesson, but instead he waves the intruder in and this time everybody stops to stare.

  
“Good, you made it. Come on, come on.”

  
The man smiles and hurries in, and if Ross was unimpressed before then he’s practically gobsmacked when John places a friendly hand on his shoulder as he passes and confidently takes a place next to Vasily in the front row. Silver shows no sign of being surprised with the man’s choice of position in the room, instead busying himself with rewinding the music so they can take off from where they were interrupted.

 

"Who does this bitch think he is?" Duncan hisses into Ross's ear, but Ross can only shrug and set himself up to start the sequence again, stealing sly glances out of the corner of his eye at the newcomer as George mutters to himself on Ross’s other side about interruptions and jumped-up students.

  
He can’t work out how old the blond is. He looks about seventeen, but he can only assume that if he’s here then he must be at least a few years older. The man wastes no time getting himself ready to join the class, pulling off a pair of baggy sweats to reveal compact, muscled legs. Ross watches him sweep his hand back through his golden hair, a wavy tendril having fallen across his forehead as he tugged off his outdoor sweater.

  
It’s immediately obvious why he chose to stand where he did. The steps aren’t complicated, a simple repeating series of drills that they’ve all been doing for at least ten years, but his execution is faultless and Ross can’t help but look as he flicks his feet through the air, landing light and effortless between each set and not so much as a hair out of place. Despite his lack of height he’s jumping at least as high as Vas - and making it look twice as easy.

  
Pretty soon Ross has got so far out of what he’s supposed to be doing that finds himself on the receiving end of Silver’s corrections, and to his embarrassment he feels the blond slide his own glance over in Ross’s direction, no doubt wondering why a principal can’t even manage a couple of cabriolés without help.

  
As Silver gives direction to the next group the man appears to fall into quiet conversation with Maks and Vasily on either side of him, but Ross is almost sure they aren’t speaking English. He says something with a wide smile, making Vas laugh loudly, and a set of deep dimples appear on the man’s cheeks.

  
He looks up suddenly and catches Ross’s gaze, bright blue eyes to Ross’s own dark-framed hazel pair, and Ross realises with a start that he must be frowning because the man’s smile fades as he cocks his head and gives him a curious look.

  
Ross forces his face into what he hopes is a friendly expression and gives a polite nod, turning away and throwing himself back into the class. He’s aware he has a tendency to look angry when he’s thinking but the new guy doesn’t know that, and whatever the dude might be doing here he doesn’t want anyone thinking that Ross is throwing him shade before he's even said hello.

  
To Ross’s relief, Silver decides to chuck in some light-hearted partner work and pretty soon the whole class is laughing and rolling around the floor. By the time the lesson ends he’s almost forgotten about the blond, until Silver clicks his fingers after the rest of he class have thanked him for the lesson. and calls him and the rest of the principal men over to where he and the new guy are standing talking together like they’ve known each other for years.

  
Silver wears a broad smile as he casually slings his arm round the man’s shoulder, steering him forward into the group.

  
“Gentlemen, may I introduce our number seven.”

  
Ross feels his eyebrows fly up in response to the announcement. He can’t see why Silver didn’t think to tell them about the new dancer’s arrival before today, but either way it makes no difference – he’s here now. Ross knows how busy they’ve all been, and knowing Flint and Silver it probably just slipped their minds.

He quickly smooths his expression out and they all take turns to introduce themselves. Ross finds himself last to be on the receiving end of his greeting, taking Ross’s hand with a firm grip and a sincere grin.

  
“I’m Ross, Ross Poldark,” he offers up before the other man speaks. “Looking forward to working with you.”

  
“Me too, Ross,” the blond says with a warm smile. “James Hawkins; but you can call me Jim.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So?” Verity whispers excitedly, perching herself down in between Ross and the rest of the clothes he’s attempting to put on. 

 

"So?" 

 

"So... what's he like?"

  
Ross sighs. He’ll give Verity credit where it's due, though. She's managed to hold off longer than he’d thought she would.  
  
Ross hadn’t expected to see any more of Jim that day, but to his surprise he’d sat through the entire six hours of Ross’s rehearsal with Elizabeth and the other character artists from _Don_ , quietly taking notes in the corner and watching intently as they perfect their performances. Ross had half expected him to disappear, either spending the day mooching around or maybe even hanging out with the corps who were practicing an entirely different ballet on the stage; but he guesses it makes sense for him to get in the studio and see how they work here, even if he isn’t cast in any of the productions for the first half of the season. It means, though, that Verity has been deprived of getting any further juice on the latest hot topic.

  
“What’s who like?” Ross mutters, fiddling with his laces.

  
“Oh my god, who the hell do you think? Hotty McHot? Jim, was it?”

  
“I don’t know. I haven’t really had a chance to find out,” he says flippantly, rolling his eyes. He knew this was coming. No doubt the entire company have been dissecting what little they’ve seen of the poor bastard all day, and now Verity is going to ask him questions all night.

  
“Oh my god, you’re literally the worst. Have you actually even said 'hi' to him?”

  
“Umm, obviously!” Ross insists. “I just haven’t had a chance to sit him down with a nice cup of tea and grill him about his entire life, you know? Some of us haven’t had time for small talk. I’ve been working all fucking day-”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
“Whatever. Don’t be such a queen. He’s Bolshoi, apparently.”

  
Now Ross’s interest is piqued. It’s obvious that Jim has had some exceptional training, but why he might have left one of the most prestigious classical ballet companies in the world to come here is a good question. That explains how he can speak Russian, at least.

  
“Well, Vee; it sounds like you already know far more about him than I do,” he says drily. “Maybe it’s me that should be asking you the questions.” He motions for her to budge up so he can swing his other foot up on the bench.

  
“He’s seriously good looking though, don’t you think?”

  
“Is he?”

  
“Ohh, I see," Verity snorts. "Nice try. I saw you looking at him in class."

"I'm allowed to look at people, Verity; especially when they fall through the damn door."

"Right, but you're not allowed to look at people as if you want to lick them like an Ice Dream cone; not unless you're going to tell me all about it."

"Fuck off," Ross snaps, "As if I was." 

"Whatever. Come on.” She shuffles in the pile of clothing strewn on the bench and presses his beanie into his hands. “You’re always so slow getting changed.”

  
Ross just huffs incredulously and makes a point of reaching round her to tug out the sweater that she’s sitting on.

  
“Wonder why that is,” he laughs, before he jumps to his feet and throws her over his shoulder, her squeals echoing down the corridors as he marches her out into the night.

 

* * *

 

Ross stuffs his water bottle and sweater into his locker, trying to catch the rest of the junk he never clears out of it before it all falls out onto the floor. He slams the door quickly, but jumps when he finds Jim calmly waiting for him behind it.

  
“Hey. Sorry, did I scare you?”

  
“Nah, not at all,” Ross lies. “You alright there?” he asks, but he goes to head out of the changing room all the same.

He’d spotted Jim in class that morning, but by now the whole Company is keen to get to know him and were buzzing around him like flies so Ross hasn’t said much more than 'good morning'. If he makes himself late now though then the rest of his schedule will fall in on itself like dominoes and he’ll be fucked for the rest of the day.

  
“Actually I was wondering if you could do me a favour," Jim asks. "Could you show me where the finance office is?”

 

“Ahh… Jesus." Ross feels bad for turning him down, but he really doesn’t have time for anyone right now. "I hate to say it, but is there any chance you could ask someone else?”

  
“I did. I asked George, actually but… he wasn’t keen.” Jim gives a small smile and Ross shuffles on his feet, glancing at the clock above the door. Damn George. Ross is already cutting into his costume fitting appointment but he doesn’t want Jim thinking that they’re all selfish pricks, and it’s not Jim’s fault that no-one has time to show him around properly yet.

  
“It’s fine,” Jim assures him before Ross can reply. “You guys must be seriously busy. I’ll find it eventually, I’m sure. I’ll see you, Ross.”

He starts to turn away but Ross catches his arm and stops him.

  
“No, not at all. I mean – well, we are busy, yeah. It’s… look, it’s on the third floor but I can show you, if you still want. I just won’t be able to hang around. Is that ok?”

  
Jim’s smile is so bright that Ross is almost glad he chose to say yes. He realises he knows absolutely nothing about him other than his name and what Verity told him about Jim having been in Moscow, and that this is the first real opportunity he’s had to talk to him; but to his surprise he finds he has absolutely no idea what to say.

  
It’s not that he isn’t curious, because he is; but he just doesn’t see the point of bothering him with the same questions that he’s no doubt been asked a thousand times in the last twenty-four hours. To his relief Jim saves him the trouble, asking Ross instead about all the departments they pass and where he can get a decent pizza in Boston. It’s only by time Ross deposits him at the office and jogs back down the stairs to the costume shop that he realises once again he’s no closer to knowing anything about the new guy at all.

 

* * *

 

The tiles click under his feet as Ross hurries down the stairs and out of the back exit into the alley that runs behind the opera. Heading out into the daylight always feels like more of a big deal than it should, spending so much of his life cooped up inside. He takes a deep breath of midday air and rummages in his pocket for his earbuds, but just as he looks down to fish them out he feels a light hand on his shoulder.

“Ross!" Jim stands in front of him, bouncing on his tiptoes and flashing his now-familiar smile. "Hey, you wanna grab a bite?”

  
“Ahh, sorry man, I’m actually just off to the pool.”

  
“Oh neat - are you going for a swim? I’ve been meaning to find a place for days. You mind if I join you?”

  
Ross opens and closes his mouth a few times, not used to having company during his swim. He doesn’t want to point out that anyone could have shown Jim the pool over the last four days since his arrival, or more to the point he could have just looked on a map, but he isn’t an unreasonable guy and so he just tightens the grip on the straps of his bag over his shoulder and smiles what he hopes isn't too tightly.

  
“Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  
They walk the few blocks to the pool side by side, Jim keenly asking what he thinks about dancing Basilio. Ross is surprised by the depth and integrity of his questions, finding himself thinking about aspects of the character he’d never considered before.He leaves Jim paying for a membership and changes quickly, breaking the surface of the cool water with the tips of his fingers as he dives in. His strokes are strong and well-practiced. He’d never been much of a swimmer before he got to San Francisco but one of the principals there had told him about how good it was for breath control and so he’d given it a go, finding it calming and helpful in equal measure. He pulls himself under and swims a leisurely length along the bottom, surfacing at the edge just in time to find Jim standing above him.

  
He adjusts his goggles and looks up. Unlike Ross who swims in knee-length jammers, Jim wears a snug pair of red trunks, though they’re slung just as low round his hips as Ross’s are and leave quite literally nothing to Ross’s imagination. He doesn’t know why, but he’s surprised to see an unruly flash of gold curls at the base of his stomach that trail invitingly down below the waistband. He’s only seen Jim in a scruffy t-shirt so far, but for some reason he’d just assumed he’d be all wood floors, no carpet.

  
Ross quickly flicks his gaze over the rest of his body, hoping his eyes are hidden behind the blue lenses of his goggles. Jim is in incredible shape, but that’s hardly a revelation. Ross has already seen his legs but Jim turns to check the time and Ross nearly swallows a mouthful of water when he sees the way the trunks hug Jim’s backside and the phrase ‘bubble butt’ surfaces somewhere in his mind. _That thing is a goddamn peach._  Ross gapes, and then remembers his mouth is still below the waterline, ending up swallowing a mouthful of chlorine and coughing loudly to boot.

  
Jim gives him a friendly wave before he too dives in, disappearing under the water with a neat splash; and Ross just shakes his head and pushes off the tiled wall with his feet after him, trying to concentrate on not drinking any more of the pool.

 

* * *

 

Ross settles heavily into the small sofa, kicking his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. He likes their time in the evening when they can get it, cosy in their little living room that Verity has made cute with a couple of well-placed bohemian throws and furniture she’s found at the flea market.

  
He perches his laptop on his knees and drags up his browser to search for Jim. He doesn’t know why he has this ridiculous urge to find out more about him. He’s been trying to ignore it since the day before at the pool but Jim had joined him for his swim again today and now curiosity has got the better of Ross. He finds himself scrolling through old press articles but the few entries he finds are in Russian and as usual Google translate proves about as much help as a screen door on a submarine. He guesses he could ask Maks or Vasily, but then it would be a bit fucking obvious what he’s up to.

  
He glances quickly at Verity wedged on the sofa next to him to check she isn’t looking over his shoulder before he zooms in on a grainy picture of a young Jim. He scans the Cyrillic caption and manages to make out Jim’s name and his age – sixteen at the time, which would make him twenty-three now. Time has hardly touched him. His body has clearly lost it’s teenage lankiness but his face is almost unchanged since the photo was taken. His hair is exactly the same gold waves, though it was maybe a little longer back then. The same slightly too-long nose, his lips frozen in a placid smile, even fuller and more obvious without the scruff of morning stubble that he sometimes appears in class with.

  
They’re so different, Jim’s gold to his black. Ross is handsome, his strong features and dark colouring making him popular both on and off the stage.

 _“You are best of both worlds_ ,” Luca had told him _, “The good boy that is looking dangerous._ ”

Ross doesn’t know about being dangerous, but Jim looks practically angelic and Ross can hardly imagine him being anything other than squeaky clean.

  
A pair of pink satin shoes lands with a resounding smack in the middle of his keyboard, snapping him out of his thoughts. He picks them up by the ribbons and holds them back out to Verity, quickly closing all his tabs before she has a mind to look.

  
“You drop these?”

  
“No. Thought you could put yourself to good use.”

  
“Eh? Oh, hell no. No! You know I can’t sew!”

  
“Ugh, fine,” Verity huffs, snatching them back from him. “It’s not sewing, it’s darning. And maybe it’s about time you learnt then. Jim did all Ruth’s, you know.”

  
“Who?”

  
“Ruth! For fucks sake, sometimes I wonder if you actually pay any attention at all. You know, the one that’s sleeping with—”

  
“Christ, obviously I know who Ruth is." He screws up his face as he slams the laptop shut and reaches for the TV controls, not able to think of a worse way to spend his time than preparing someone else’s gear. "I meant — _Jim_ did her shoes for her? Why?”

“Because he’s nice. I’d have thought you would have known that by now, seeing as he’s been here nearly a week.”

  
Ross doesn’t want to point out that Jim maybe doesn’t have anything else better to do right now, but he tactfully decides to keep his mouth shut. Quite how Jim is so good at darning damn pointe shoes is beyond him though. It’s not really so common for the guys to dance on pointe. It’s certainly not part of their formal training, though Ross and a couple of the others danced in _The Dream_ last year and they’d had to learn how to for that.

  
They started on their backs, kicking their feet against Pilates boards, then rising up onto their toes in the studio, the girls craning their necks at the windows in hysterics as the lads howled and whinged inside. Though their muscles were stronger, the boys were heavier and the pressure through their uninitiated tiptoes was excruciating.

  
Verity had obviously thought the whole thing was hilarious until Ross actually cried one night at home after four brutal days dancing with bleeding nails and ankles that just weren’t as strong in the same way as the the girls' after all their years of practice. She caved then, and showed him how to break the shoes so they would fit better, how to soak his feet in meths to toughen his skin; and finally thrown him a handful of dishcloths, showing him how to wrap his feet to pad out his custom-made, boat-sized shoes before he put his feet in. It had helped a ton, but it gave Ross an even deeper respect for the girls and their strength and he’s glad it isn’t his daily reality.

  
“I think you like him.”

  
Ross doesn’t want to admit that he’s been thinking about Jim far more than he feels like he should be. He doesn’t even know him, after all. It’s not Ross’s fault the guy chooses to use the pool in tiny swimwear, though he’s fairly sure Jim wouldn’t think much of Ross stalking him online like a weirdo instead of sitting him down over a coffee and asking him about himself. Ross knows he had better get over himself quickly, because it’s inevitable that he’ll be seeing a lot more of Jim’s body in the studio over the course of the next few years.

  
It’s just because he’s new, he tells himself.

Jim intrigues him, and he’s sure it’ll wear off; but what worries Ross is the fact he’s sure he could have made time for Jim by now if he’d really wanted to. Instead, he’s chosen not to, letting that odd sense of wanting to keep his distance and work him out from afar take over – the feeling he only ever gets when he’s interested in people in an entirely non-professional way.

  
He cannot let himself fall for Jim — for any of their sakes. The last thing the guys need is politics at work because people can’t dance together any more after a fling turns sour.

  
“I like him just fine,” he mutters, peering round Verity’s head to scroll through Netflix. “He’s a good dancer.”

  
“You know what I’m talking about. You’re being all weird and coy and I know you too well to have not noticed. Come on, don’t you think for once it might actually be nice to let yourself get involved with someone? I don’t know why you don’t have a boyfriend, Ross. There must be guys lining up outside the door that to want to date you.”

  
Ross snorts and throws another handful of popcorn in his mouth.

  
“I don’t see ‘em. Maybe the sight of you scares them away every morning.”

  
Verity kicks him half-heartedly but Ross just laughs.

  
“Anyway, I don’t want to take anyone out, I have plenty of fun at home.”

  
“I’m not talking about Tinder,” Verity groans. “Inviting someone over for a quick fuck is hardly the same thing. I mean something long-term, like me and Drew. You deserve someone nice, I just want to see you happy.”

  
“I am happy! I don’t have a boyfriend because I don’t want a boyfriend, alright? And even if I did want to date Jim – which I don’t – I wouldn’t. Look at all the trouble it causes you, crying every time Andrew doesn’t call, or if he’s late sending you a message—”

  
“Oh my god, actually shut up. That’s different. It’s just really hard when he’s not here, alright?” Verity snaps.

  
Ross watches her carefully as she looks down at her hands, the tiny flash of pink on her cheeks that always shows up when she’s worried. It’s not easy for them, the time difference and performances all over the place, working all day and finding little time to talk. Ross likes Andrew, but he hates watching Verity getting stressed when he fails to hold up his end of the long-distance bargain.

  
“Do you trust him?” he asks quietly.

  
“Implicitly,” Verity growls, her face turning stony. “God, you’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

“Alright!" Ross holds up his hands in his defense. "I’m sorry, I am. I’m just saying, you know what dancers can be like.”

  
“Well thankfully, he’s nothing like you,” she mutters, but Ross just dives in for a crushing hug, bribing her with apologies in stupid voices until he’s got his cousin laughing again.

 

* * *

  
The bag falls to the floor with a dull thud, spilling a tangle of earphones and stretch bands onto the vinyl. Ross's back twinges in protest as he bends down to grab it, his whole body aching from the relentless schedule of the last few days. It’s already far later than he would normally stay but he wants to make the most of the time in the evenings before it’s all swallowed up by performances after _Don_ premieres tomorrow, so he’d holed himself up in a practice room until he’s satisfied everything will be perfect. The building is deserted, and Ross takes his time tugging off his ballet shoes, absentmindedly rubbing his calves as he stretches out on the bench in the empty changing room.

  
He almost doesn’t think anything of the music at first, convinced that it’s in his own head; but the longer he listens he realises it isn’t anything he knows. He stands up, craning his head to try and work out where it’s coming from, walking slowly along the line of doors that lead off from the changing room into the studios beyond. He’s pretty sure everyone has long since gone home but it’s possible someone left some speakers on.

  
Each dark window reveals a silent space inside, but when he reaches the last one he can see that there’s a light on and he presses his face up against the glass to take a look.

  
It’s not more than a few seconds before Ross reels breathlessly back from the door like he’s been stung. He doesn’t know why he’s so shocked. A naked man is hardly a new concept to him and anyway, he enjoys dancing without clothes himself. It feels good, the ultimate freedom, the ability to see every inch of your body move and make art. Their bodies are their tools and he, like everyone else he dances with, appreciates all of it without embarrassment.

  
But this – this feels different and Ross is trespassing on something so private, so personal.

  
It isn’t a performance.

Jim isn’t showing off for anyone, isn’t pretending to be anyone else but his absolute self. It’s all for Jim. His eyes are closed as he dances, his face not strained with the complicated movements he makes but a canvas of pure, unfiltered passion. His beautiful mouth curls just slightly up at the corners and Ross can almost feel the complete happiness radiating from the blond.

He is mesmerizing, and Ross can’t tear himself away.

  
Before he knows what he’s doing he’s back at the window, an intruder on this innocent, intimate moment and he swears Jim will be able to hear the thud of his heart racing in his chest through the door.

  
It’s not a dance Ross recognizes. It’s certainly nothing that any of the Company have been working on lately. He watches Jim move through the misty glass, his over-heated breath flaring condensation up the cool surface.

  
At first, it’s the form and shape he makes; Ross breathing harder as Jim bends his limbs and arches his back, moving like fluid through the air. He is more compact than Ross, shorter; but his muscles are no less well-defined, stretching and rippling below his skin, luminous in the spotlight. Soon though, Ross’s attention drifts to more specific areas of Jim’s body. Jim’s hair curls in damp at the base of his neck. Beads of sweat roll off his shoulders, and Ross watches them drip down the valley of his spine until the trail reaches the cleft of his backside. Jim’s ass is like nothing Ross has ever seen, perfect round balls of muscle that he is suddenly overcome with the urge to sink his face into.

  
He feels his face heat up and a deep warmth settle in somewhere between his legs as his balls tighten and blood rushes to his cock.

  
“ _Shit_ ,” he thinks, then bites his lip to stop himself when he realises he’s talking out loud. To his horror he realises he’s hard, the outline of his boner glaringly obvious through the tight fabric of his leggings. He quickly weighs up his options. If anyone should come through the locker room now it’ll be practically impossible for him to explain away what he’s doing, but he’s already too far gone to just walk away.

  
Jim continues oblivious to Ross’s presence, sinking to his knees and bending himself backwards until the back of his head grazes the floor.

Ross is touching himself before he’s even thought about it. He alternates between thumbing over his head and stroking his balls through his clothes, his mouth hanging open in awe as his lips moves wordlessly, only tiny moans and labored breaths making their way out.

Jim’s cock is perfectly in proportion, as inviting as the rest of him, resting soft against his thigh as he lays on the floor before planting his hands behind him and arching himself upward, holding himself up on the tips of his fingers and toes. Ross swallows hard and makes himself look away, but the heat in his body is already building fast and a dark grey patch appears on the grey fabric as he starts to leak precum. He braces his free hand against the doorframe and drags his palm along his length, his eyes fluttering closed as he grazes his nails up his shaft.

  
The light in the room reflects the planes and angles of Jim’s body and Ross finds himself wondering what it would be like to trace a finger down the hard lines of muscles on his stomach, up the pale inside of his thigh, down the slight furrow of his forehead that appears as he eases himself down into box splits, his feet pointing at opposite dark corners of the room.

  
Ross feels himself hold his breath as Jim leans forward away from him almost as if he’s in slow motion, his stomach coming to rest on the floor and leaving Ross with a perfect forbidden view. Ross lets go of his dick and tears both hands through his now dripping hair, shoving it away from his face to see better. His chest heaves as he watches the scene through the glass. Jim is totally exposed, the stretch leaving him wide open, Ross transfixed by the tight pink knot of muscle between his cheeks that flexes as Jim’s body adjusts to the position. He comes without a hand on himself, mouth wide open in a silent gasp as he spills hot and hard all over himself and clawing his fingers into the wood of the doorframe to keep himself up, begging himself not to make a noise.

  
He blinks blearily through the foggy glass and for the briefest moment he could swear that Jim turns his head just slightly, only a tiny movement towards the door, but it’s enough and seconds later Ross is tearing off his sticky leggings as fast as his shaking hands will let him, shoving his feet into his track pants and launching himself out along the corridor, leaving the changing room in silence all but for the haunting strain of the music drifting through from the studio.


	3. Chapter 3

Ross closes his eyes but the gentle vibration of the train against the back of his thighs isn’t doing anything to help turn him off. Hot guilt had followed him all the way to the station but now he’s had time to catch his breath, and despite his best efforts, the images of Jim on the floor race through his mind on endless replay and all he wants to do is get home so he can wrap a fist round himself properly.

He clutches his bag to his lap and prays that no-one in the carriage notices that he’s sporting a raging hard-on, thanking his stars that there is barely anyone around at this time of day. He pulls his face into what he hopes is a severe and unapproachable expression – luckily something that isn’t particularly difficult for him.

  
Somehow he wills himself into submission when it’s time to get off but he barely remembers making it back to his apartment. He hopes to god that Verity isn’t still awake because it’s all he can do to stagger to his room, chucking his coat onto the floor in the hallway as he goes and slamming the door behind him. No sooner than he’s closed it he falls heavily back against it, tearing his trousers and down around his thighs until he can take himself in his hand with a gasp and pump his cock with a fury that astounds him. It’s bordering on painful but he wants it like that, half-hating himself for fucking himself over someone who is supposed to be a work mate, if not a potential friend; and half-exhilarated that it feels so mind-blowingly good that he couldn’t stop if he tried.

  
His hand is too dry and his grip is almost too tight, but he doesn’t have time to find his lube so he just spits into it and gathers what wetness he can from his head, using that to slick his way. His free hand tugs his t-shirt off, not bothering to stop with his other fist even as he tangles his arms on the way. He groans loudly as he scratches his fingernails over his bared chest, flicking over the hardening buds of his nipples and trying desperately not to think about how it might feel if it were Jim doing it, or if his hand were running over Jim’s body instead of his own.

  
His hips move desperately of their own accord, jerking forward to meet his fist as he slams it around the base of his cock, moving his spare hand down now and reaching round to slide a finger between his ass cheeks, not pushing in but just rubbing across his entrance. He knows he is supposed to be quiet but he can’t help it, letting long low moans spill out into his room.

  
His hair sticks to his face as sweat beads on his forehead and he screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing upwards as he brings himself closer to the edge. Jim’s muscles bunch and flex beneath pale skin in Ross’s mind and suddenly the pressure building within him is too much. He slams his head back against the door with a loud thud as he spills messily across his hand and stomach, teeth clamping down too hard on the inside of his cheek and the rusty taste of blood filling his mouth.

  
His knees stutter and he has to brace himself against the wood at his back as he comes down, his chest heaving and breaths coming short and fast. Shakily, he fumbles for his discarded t-shirt and roughly wipes himself off, tugging his sweats back up and throwing himself onto the bed.

  
He closes his eyes and lets himself drift for a few minutes in spent oblivion, but little by little snatches of the music Jim had danced to sneak into his head. He curls himself under the cover, bunching it up over his ears. He tries to fall asleep but all he can see is Jim’s perfect ass and the way he stretched himself open, laid out right in front of Ross; and before he knows it he’s hard again. He can’t quite believe this. He isn’t even sure if he can go again, already sore and feeling totally drained, but his body seems to have gone mad tonight and he knows he is unlikely to get to sleep for a very long time unless he does something about it.

  
He rolls onto his front and pulls the duvet completely up and over his head, desperately trying to block it all out; but it’s even worse, the friction of his dick pressing into the mattress now too much to resist. With a frustrated groan he flops over onto his back again, shaking his head in resignation as he tells himself this has to stop. Reluctantly he slides his hand down the still-tacky skin of his stomach and for the third time that night Ross comes hard with the image of Jim in his mind, spilling over his fingers and whining softly at the back of his throat, toes curled and biting at the pillow to stop himself from crying out; not even managing to take his hand away before he falls exhausted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Morning light cringes into the room by the time Ross wakes with a start, a slow trail of drool easing its way down his face onto the already soaked pillow. He groggily sits up and raises his hand to wipe his mouth but realises it’s still stuck down his sweatpants, grimacing as he pulls it out and sees the white crust of dried come that still coats his skin. The water isn’t even warm before he throws himself under the blast of the shower, desperate to wash away the evidence of his evening activities and give himself a fucking good talking-to.

  
He has no idea what came over him – other than the obvious, he thinks wryly. It’s bad enough that he was watching Jim in the first place, standing and gaping like a perv; but the fact that he didn’t walk away — and worse, actually stood there and got himself off outside the door – and then again at home, _and then, oh god, again_. He groans with embarrassment and guilt just thinking about it. He isn’t going to deny that he thinks Jim is properly hot, but spending the entire night jerking off over him is way out of line. He’s supposed to be a professional. Jim is his colleague and this behaviour has to end right now.

  
It’s only when he’s in the deserted kitchen that he starts to feel the prickle of unease at the back of his neck. The apartment is quiet – really quiet, and even if Verity is in her room he can usually hear her moving around. He frowns at the empty coffee cup in the sink and looks for Verity’s keys in the bowl only to find them gone. He fishes his phone out from underneath the pillow and nearly flings it across the room when he checks the display.

  
10.56am.

  
Every curse that he knows comes out his mouth while he frantically stuffs some gear in his bag. His brain reels as he tries to remember to take everything he’ll need for the evening; hopping on one foot as he catches his leg in his jeans and still tugging his hoodie down over his bare stomach as he hurtles himself out onto the street. Much to his annoyance there’s a huge crowd at the station and he has to shoulder his way through just to get to the stairs. He makes it to the platform, but instead of waiting expectantly for the next train people look pissed off and mutter into their cell phones.

  
He scans quickly down the list of departures on the sign above but all he can see is _delayed, delayed, cancelled_ in blinking orange lights.

The subway is notoriously unreliable but why it had to be today of all days when he is already late he doesn’t know.

  
“Fuck! Fucking fuck!” he yells, startling two older women beside him before he bounds along the platform and takes the stairs to the exit two at a time, tugging his own phone out of his back pocket as it starts to ring and jamming it under his ear as he hurries over to the bus stop opposite the station.

  
Maks’ deep voice booms in his ear before he even has a chance to speak.

  
“What in fuck are you doing?”

  
“Jesus, I know, I know. I just… overslept and now all the damn trains are delayed—” He trails off as he runs his eyes over the route to the Opera, growling to himself when he sees that it’ll take three changes and more time than he has to spare.

  
Maks cuts him off with a disbelieving snort.

  
“You are lousy liar. Verity is telling me you are having company last night.”

  
“Company? Why the fuck would I bring someone home on a fucking Thursday evening?” Ross hisses incredulously, before he remembers the jacket he flung off in the hall and guiltily thinks that combined with the noises that Verity no doubt heard through the wall last night that she must have put two and two together and come up with five.

  
“Look, never mind that,” he says, feeling flustered now. “Can you just tell Silver that I’ll be in as soon as I can?”

  
“No can do. You are forgetting today we are having photo session in rehearsal with Cary. He is looking for you, he will be wanting your balls.”

  
“Cary? What? Oh _fuck_ ,” Ross groans.

  
He pulls the phone away and looks desperately at the time, wondering if anything can possibly get any worse. He’d completely forgotten that they’re scheduled to have a photo shoot of their rehearsal for some cultural magazine to promote the company and their upcoming repertoire for the season, though why the hell it’s been organized for today with everything else that’s going on already he has no idea. They’re no stranger to photo shoots but usually they do them for their own benefit and boosting their own profile, where as this one is for Flint and he really can’t miss it.

  
“Can you just - I don’t know - distract him or something for me?”

  
“I will set off fire alarm. Simple.”

  
“N- what? No! Maks, you can’t do tha—”

  
“Darling, I am hot enough to set fire to whole building. Is no problem. Just hurry your ass up.”

  
Maksim hangs up unceremoniously and Ross throws his head back in disbelief, allowing himself to close his eyes for a full two seconds of self-pity before breaking into a frantic sprint.

 

* * *

 

He’s still breathing hard when he nudges open the door to studio six as quietly as he can, hoping against hope that Cary won’t notice and that maybe he can just slip in near the back of the room when he’s not looking. It’s one thing missing class where the only person who stands to lose out is yourself, but being late to rehearsal - which he now is - isn’t acceptable, especially when there will be photographic evidence of his absence; or more accurately, lack of evidence. John would probably let it slide after a quick reprimand but Cary, on the other hand, will take it as a personal affront and he knows he won’t be allowed to forget it.

  
“One, two, YOU’RE LATE, three; you’re making that rotation too early Duncan, listen to the music please; so here I want duh-duh-duhhh then the _saut de basque_ ,” Warleggan says without turning around or breaking his stream of instruction to the men already hard at work in the room.

  
Ross hurriedly dumps his bag and kicks off his sneakers. He reaches down to start at the button of his jeans but Warleggan just clicks his fingers sharply above his head and yells, “As you are, Poldark; or not at all.”

  
Ross rolls his eyes, cursing Cary for being such a prick and especially in front of the press. It drives him insane the way Cary treats them more like students than professionals; but he obeys all the same, silently thanking himself for wearing jeans tight enough that they’re practically leggings anyway. He can - and frequently does - dance dressed in whatever he’s wearing, but the fabric of his sweater is damp from the light rain that had started up shortly after he left the station and his legs are cold despite the long run.

  
Ross quickly takes his place in the room, taking the opportunity to tug off his hoodie and throw it to the side while Cary paces round to correct Vasily’s posture. He makes an apologetic face at the photographer and his assistant, but the guy just waves it off in a friendly way and Ross quickly scrapes his hair back, wishing he’d had time to at least make himself look semi-presentable.

  
“Now that Mr Poldark has taken it upon himself to join us, he can demonstrate his flawless five-forty for us all. I’m sure he’s feeling well-rested and raring to go after his lie-in.”

  
Ross glowers silently at Cary but internally he groans. He knows he’s trying to goad him into either admitting he can’t do it because he missed class, or attempting it anyway and looking like an idiot when he messes up. The revoltade five-forty is one of the biggest and hardest jumps in their repertoire, and not many people can pull it off and make it look as easy as Ross usually does. The problem is he needs a ridiculous amount of height and power to complete the kicking turn in the air and it’s going to be a huge effort for him to get it round and land properly with his clingy jeans and tight muscles.

  
_Screw you_ , he thinks, but he pads over to the corner anyway. If he fucks up and hurts himself then at least he has enough people to back him up when he tells Flint it’s Cary’s fault.

  
Ross hops up and down on the balls of his feet in his socks, desperately trying to stretch out before he jumps. He’s pretty sure he can do it out of spite for Cary alone, but he could really have used just five minutes to warm up and wishes he’d had the foresight to hang out and stretch in the changing room first instead of heading straight to the studio.

  
He takes a deep breath and he’s sure he’s moving in slow motion when he swings his arms across his body to give him the momentum that he needs. He keeps his eyes looking up toward the high ceiling, trying to think about getting as much elevation as he can to get the number of revolutions he needs, watching his leg come up and over as his body turns in the air. His hamstring pulls as his top leg extends as fully as his clothes will let him, but he lands well enough and immediately decides to launch into a second, using the momentum from the first to give him height for the next. This time he doesn’t have to think and he lands cleanly, bringing himself down onto one knee with his arms well extended.

  
He tries not to smile but Cary looks like he’s chewing nails and he can see Vasily trying to stifle a laugh behind the master’s head.

  
“Looks like your vacation this morning did you some good after all, Poldark; but your leg wasn’t fully extended and I believe I only asked for one.”

  
Cary turns back to the photographer and says something that Ross doesn’t catch, before he saunters back to the stereo.

Ross stands up. Even if he’d executed the best damn jump of his life, Cary would still have found something to say. Either way, at least he didn’t break his leg with any luck maybe Cary has got his annoyance at Ross’s late entry out of his system now. Sure, he’s been embarrassed in front of everyone else, but it’s hardly the first time.

  
_And at least_ , he thinks to himself, _it can’t get any worse_.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

  
“I wanna go from the beginning of Mesmerics, please,” Cary drawls.

  
Even though they’ll be performing Don Quixote that evening they’re rehearsing an entirely different production this morning, a contemporary collection of short works featuring just the seven principal men called Random Acts. Maks’s huge hand braces locks around the back of his neck as they lean into each other, making up the framework for the starting positions of the others. Kaito kneels next to him and he hears George grumbling about Ross’s cold skin as he props himself up against his bare back.

  
The flash of gold hair behind Maks almost knocks Ross off balance. At least being so late has meant that he’s had no time to think about Jim, and he’d been so preoccupied with Cary until now that he hadn’t even clocked him in the room. Ross is glad that from here Jim can’t see his face because he knows he’s beet red. He’d told himself earlier in the shower to forget all about it, to just get on and work; but everything he saw the night before is flooding right back and he can feel his palms start to prickle with sweat.

  
“Are you alright?” Maks whispers. “You are looking sick.”

  
“I’m fine. Just tired.”

  
“Tired from all your ‘not having company’?” Maks cocks a thick eyebrow at him, a disbelieving smirk on his face.

  
“Yeah,” Ross whispers back. “Anyway, so much for buying me some goddamn time. I thought you said you were going to pull the fire alarm?”

  
“I did,” Maks shrugs as the deep beat of the opening bars start up. “Is not my fault if you are running like a little girl.”

 

* * *

 

The piece is a powerful display of explosive jumps and lifts, involving them balancing on and around each other. There’s a lot of floor work – and Ross knows it won’t be long before they have the bruises to show it – but there’s a lot of contact work too and there’s no way he can avoid Jim. It’s less than thirty seconds before his shaking hands are round Jim’s waist, and he has to close his eyes as he comes into contact with his skin for fear of dropping him. He’s smooth and warm and Ross can feel him breathing hard, though his face looks a picture of relaxed concentration.

  
“Keep breathing guys, deep in those legs. Better spacing George, good,” Cary calls out, thankfully oblivious to Ross’s predicament. Jim turns away but Ross knows the next phase involves him catching Jim at the end of a flying leap, then rolling him up and over his shoulder. He forces himself to concentrate on counting as they move, not sure whether he’s glad or not that it’s up to him to call out for all of them.

  
“One, two, three, four five; one, two, three,” he says, tracking Jim as he takes off and shifting his feet slightly so that he catches him easily on braced arms, one across Jim’s chest and the other across his stomach. It wouldn’t be so bad if Jim were wearing more than a pair of tight shorts and some socks, but it seems like every inch of body that Ross has tried to scrub from his mind drags across his own, leaving a trail of fire on Ross’s chest as he goes.

  
He guides him down to the floor and stifles a gap as Jim’s thigh momentarily rasps along his own, the friction of his hard muscle moving against the damp denim causing Ross to lose his footing.

  
“Longer lines please Poldark, pay attention to your focus,” Cary says, snapping his heart to snap back into rhythm.

  
He’s never, not ever had this problem; wanting someone he’s working with as much as he wants Jim. He moves on autopilot, no idea if he’s doing it right or not as they all move across the floor in unison. Thankfully this kind of dancing is less about the tiny technical details and more about the passion, but it doesn’t work if they aren’t perfectly in time. He keeps his gaze on Maks in front of him as he keeps counting, determined to at least keep them synchronised and not give Cary an excuse to single him out again.

  
“One, two, and one, two, and one, two – good,” Cary yells, pausing the loud music. “Hatanaka, as you come into the second pivot be careful that you don’t hit too much over ninety, or it looks like a different move to everyone else. Ahh – Hawkins, can you demonstrate? So it just comes round like this…”

  
Ross takes the opportunity to slink back to the side, easing himself into a split with his legs stretched along the wall and throwing his head back to catch his breath. If he wasn’t warm before then he sure is now, and it takes the sudden click of a shutter to bring him back to himself. He’d forgotten all about the photographer and can only hope he hasn’t been wearing an expression to match the way he’s been feeling all this time.

  
I haven’t even had a coffee yet, he thinks miserably as Jim effortlessly shows Kaito the move. He watches him carefully, startled when Jim suddenly looks across and catches him. He musters what he hopes is a smile, but Jim just looks at him with an odd expression before Cary asks him to show Kaito one more time and he turns away.

  
Ross feels his stomach drop and he screws his eyes shut.

  
What if Jim really did see him last night?

  
What if he realized what Ross was doing but couldn’t confront him because Ross ran off?

  
He suddenly wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole, but he feels a nudge against his foot and he opens his eyes to find Jim sitting next to him while Duncan runs through his solo section.

  
“Slavedriver, isn’t he?” Jim whispers as he nods in Cary’s direction, but Ross can only manage a shaky nod in reply. “The five-forty, by the way – there was nothing wrong with your leg. He’s just being a jerk. Listen, are you sure you’re alright? You really do look kind of like you’re going to puke,” Jim adds quietly.

  
“I… I just…” Ross stammers, but he wants to throw himself on the floor in relief.

  
Jim can’t know. There’s no way he’d be so worried about Ross’s wellbeing if he never wanted to see him again. He doesn’t know that Ross was there, and there’s not going to be some huge awful confrontation and embarrassing accusations of sexual harassment.

  
“Maybe something I ate?” Ross suggests weakly.

  
“God, I hope not. Are you going to be alright for this evening?” Jim asks quickly, concern written all over his face.

  
“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Actually I’m feeling better already,” he says, and he really does. He pulls his feet back in towards him and lets himself take a proper breath for the first time in twenty minutes.

  
He can do this. He can work with Jim. He’s going to enjoy it for what it is, for the fact that they dance really well with each other; and he’s certain that in a few days he will have forgotten all about it and that they can go back to starting up a friendship without any weirdness on Ross’s behalf. He figures as long as he doesn’t spend any time with him actually alone, things should be fine. It’s the least he can do for Jim.

  
“I’d like to go again, just from the top of the unison section please,” Cary announces, and Ross hops up with a much greater spring in his step, following Jim back to the centre.

  
It’s staggering how much easier it seems this time. He goes back to feeling the music instead of listening to it, letting the moves flow instead of trying to anticipate each one. Even Cary seems more content, letting his commentary accompany them but not stopping them from running through the whole section.

  
“Stay in parallel. Now lift, drop – good. And a breath – spot to the front. Nice, guys. Wait for the beat and… good. Yes Poldark, better. Drop. Keep looking at each other, good, aaand… just rest there. Good.”

  
The room is loud with the sound of panting but Ross knows that the feeling is there, that they’re accomplishing something and that with a bit more work they could be on to a really spectacular piece. They all trade grins with hands planted on their knees, and this time when Ross smiles at Jim it’s genuine.

  
“Alright, you can take ten, gentlemen; as long as Mr Danilov isn’t intending to provide us with any more unscheduled breaks.”  
Maksim waggles his eyebrows at Ross, but he finds himself laughing this time. The room empties fast but Ross catches Jim just before he heads out of the door.

  
“Hey, so,” he says. “I was thinking… we’re all going for something to eat later and I wanted to ask if you want to come. It’ll be really early though, obviously.”

  
Performance nights mean they have to eat dinner around four, but it still feels right to ask even if Jim won’t be onstage tonight. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, hoping that Jim isn’t expecting too much of their pre-show chow.

  
“There’s this Italian place just round the corner that we always go to. It’s isn’t much, honestly – but it’s pretty much as much pasta as you can eat for a couple of bucks and it’s sort of become a bit of a tradition.”

  
“Wow, are you sure? I mean, don’t you just want it to be a Don Q cast thing?” Jim asks.

  
“Nah,” Ross smiles, and he really means it when he says, “You’re one of us now. You should be there.”

  
“I’d love to,” Jim says, and he looks properly delighted. “And thanks, Ross. That seriously means a lot.”

 

* * *

 

The scaffold is cold in Ross’s hands as he tightens his grip and lifts his leg high above his head, bringing his foot to rest on the metal bar behind him. He breathes slow and deep as he closes his eyes and leans forward until the tip of his nose grazes his knuckles, and for once he’s glad of the cold draft in the dark nook holding props and miles of colour-coded electrical wiring that he’s tucked himself into.

  
Usually it’s a struggle trying to keep warm back here, but Basilio’s all-black and radically modernized costume that he’s wearing as part of Flint’s reinterpretation of the ballet doesn’t make that difficult and he knows from the experience of the past three weeks that he’ll be sweating soon enough. Ross likes the outfit though; the tight leather-like pants, the studded matador vest; the soft knee length boots that lace up the front of his shins, tucked underneath his cosy slipper socks until he needs to be on stage.

  
Finding a quiet corner back here isn’t hard if you know where to look and Ross has had plenty of opportunity to seek them out in the past few years. The size of the backstage area is mind-blowing. Connected warehouses and store rooms full of scenery sprawl out behind the auditorium. With only about fifteen minutes until the curtain goes up the area immediately around the stage is buzzing with techies, stage hands, dancers and prop managers, but the rest of the space is largely deserted and he is free to get into his headspace in delicious privacy.

  
It never ceases to amaze Ross the amount of behind the scenes work that goes into a production. The sheer effort and number of people that go into preparing for and making sure even a three-week run goes smoothly is staggering and he’s grateful to all of them, from the stage manager to the guy that mops the floor of dust and sweat and spit between acts, because without them none of their hours and hours rehearsing would matter.

  
Most of the other dancers are coming up from the practice rooms and hanging around in the wings or checking their marks and going over their entrances on the stage. Some prefer to remain waiting along the maze of narrow corridors that lead to the stage; stretching and texting and going over last-minute steps and trickier parts of the choreography like he is himself, though given that it’s the final night of the show he knows it all without thinking about it.

  
The warm-up class has only just finished but Ross likes to leave the studio a little early if he can, to give himself a little time alone. He wouldn’t call himself superstitious but they all have their little rituals and this has become part of his, hiding for just a few minutes before it all kicks off; the same as the way George needs to have his Gatorade and water lined up in the exact right order in the dressing room, or the way the girls kiss their fingers and smudge their lipstick over the centre-centre on stage.

  
It’s second nature now, the way he can block out the background noise and run through the score in his head without needing his earphones. He takes his foot down from the makeshift barre and makes a quick series of jumps across the wide space in front of him - _volé front, coupé, coupé, double tour, assemblé back..._

  
It’s his favourite part of ballet, this; the anticipation of the performance, the buzz of voices building out in the house beyond the curtain, the way everyone pulls away just slightly into their own little world for these last few minutes, nerves building and pulses starting to race. This, and the way he can lose himself so deeply in moving that he can’t think, only feel; the staggering bliss that dancing fills him up with; the perfect agony of the line he walks in his mind between ecstasy and heartbreak.

  
A movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and Garrett, one of the runners, sticks his head round the corner.

  
“Jeez, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Five minutes, Ross.”

  
“Thanks, Gaz.”

He’s been waiting for the time call and smiles appreciatively. He expects Garrett to disappear, knowing how busy he is, but to his surprise he comes closer and leans against the scaffold with a smug look that can only spell impending gossip.

  
“Have you heard? Levi is out.”

  
“What?” Ross’s mouth falls open in shock at Garrett’s news. “But I just saw him, I was literally just with him in class—”

  
“Fell down the stairs about five minutes ago.”

  
“Fuck!” he breathes.

  
It wouldn’t normally be a problem. Levi is part of the corps but he was due to take over the role of one of the soloists this evening, called up when the original dancer got the flu. Flint must be flipping out. Ross has no doubt they can do without him for the ensemble scenes, but there’s still the gaping question of how they’ll fill in for the rest of the solo parts he’s supposed to be dancing – most glaringly the lead in the dance of the matadors.

  
Even if anyone else knew the choreography well enough, most of the rest of the cast are either supposed to be onstage during Levi’s scenes or they won’t have time to make the costume changes. Flint will fix it, because that’s what he does, but he isn’t sure who else could possibly know the material that is still available at such short notice.

  
“Who’s doing it, then?”

  
Garrett just raises his eyebrows mischievously and vanishes as quickly as he came.

 

* * *

 

Ross waits in the dim wings, resting lightly against one of the wooden struts that forms the framework for the side of the stage. They’ve had their pre-show love-in all together, hidden from the audience behind the black and gold curtain, Flint appearing to give a little speech as he always does on the first and last night of a production. They all huddle together round him in the centre, arms round each other’s shoulders, and he knows from the shared looks between themselves that they all feel it too; that they’re family and they really do all love each other, and how proud they all are of the fact they’ve yet again pulled out such an impressive run of performances and had such a good time doing it.

  
Flint had dashed off quicker than normal, no doubt to fix the mess Levi has left them in; and Ross guesses there’s about three minutes to go. He feels the nerves and excitement building inside him as he hears the last members of the orchestra filing into their pit in front of the stage, having abandoned their poker chips in the middle of the green baize table in their lounge until the interval.

  
Despite the opulent red and gold glamour of the house, the wings are unlit and crowded; racks and racks of costumes and laundry carts and stage crew fighting for room with anyone that needs to be there for the beginners call. Most of their changes are done by flashlight in the dark, hurried pairs of costume department hands tugging at buttons and zippers and dabbing away sweat that threatens to ruin their makeup, and everything that they need for the next few hours is stashed back here to save them having to dash back to the changing rooms when time is tight.

  
He feels a hand on his waist and looks round to see Elizabeth smiling up at him.

  
“Hello, gorgeous boy. You ready? Ooh, have you seen the reviews?”

  
“No, and I don’t want to either. Put that _away_ ,” he mutters as she produces a newspaper from somewhere behind her tutu. “Christ, Liz, we haven’t got time for this!”

  
Elizabeth skips just out of his reach and gleefully starts scanning through the press review with a malicious expression on her face.

  
“Where is it… oh yes here we go. _Poldark’s Basilio to Chynoweth’s dazzling Kitri_ — well at least they got that bit right,” she smirks, “— _is nothing short of perfection_ – gross already, isn’t it? _His dark and dashing charm will hook you before he reels you in with the pure delight of big, crisp jumps; I simply defy anyone not to crack a smile watching this magnificent dancer so ebulliently exercising his considerable talents._ ” She pulls a face. “Oh my god, I think I might puke. Who did you have to bone to get this written up?”

  
“Alright, enough.” Ross feels his face heating up as tries to grab the paper out of her hands but she pulls it away with a laugh.

  
“Wait, wait, there’s more…”

  
“Lizzie…”

  
“ _He instantly demanded attention, mesmerising the audience with his every move. His perfectly honed physique aided athletic leaps that appeared to defy gravity; his assured actorly swagger suggested a natural theatrical charisma_ —”

“Oh, stop it,” Ross groans, but secretly he’s kind of thrilled. He’s put a lot into this show and it feels amazing to be recognised for it. Technically speaking it’s been hard, but as well as the choreography they’ve both had to seriously flex their acting skills. The story is flirty and funny and feisty, and they’ve both loved it.

“Oh. Oh no.”

Suddenly Elizabeth’s delicate face drops, her expression turning serious. Ross feels his stomach flip over. He really doesn’t care about reviews, at least not until the production is done and dusted, though Verity keeps them all carefully clipped and filed away in a box somewhere. He knows how one bad write up can practically ruin the rest of your run, if not a career; seen it happen to other people. If he wasn’t nervous enough before, now he’s suddenly terrified that he’ll still have to get through the entirety of tonight knowing that his performance has been heavily criticised, even if it is the last show.

“What? Lizzie – what does it say?”

“Well… I mean if you’re sure you can handle hearing it?”

Ross nods adamantly, bracing himself for the worst.

“It says…. _It is unfortunate, however, that Poldark chose to indulge in the lunchtime all-you-can-eat offer on the pastrami deluxe at Bagelsaurus, because his grand jeté has all the grace of the mating ritual of a_ -”

She tries to stifle her happy shriek as Ross grabs her and lifts her easily above his head, one hand planted firmly on her waist while he chucks the paper into a dark corner with the other.

“It does not say that.”

“It should. I swear if you clenched your ass tight enough you’d split those pants. Eee!” She squeals as Ross twirls her round, but she just giggles quietly. “What you been doing, lying in bed with some journo sugar-daddy feeding each other buffalo wings?”

“Fuck off. No-one is going to miss you when you go next year,” he says drily.

It’s no secret that Elizabeth has snagged herself a place at ABT in New York, but Ross will be sad to see her leave and she knows it. They have a good thing going together and he’s made a lot of his happiest memories working with her, even if most of their relationship involves trying to get the other into trouble. Nobody trusts him like Elizabeth does, and he’ll miss the way they’re always in tune with each other and never afraid to speak their minds.

“No-one more than you. Now hurry the fuck up and put me down, unless you’re actually gonna carry me out there like this.”

  
Ross quirks his head like he’s considering it, but he smiles as he deftly lowers her and ducks down for a quick good-luck kiss.

  
“Merde, darling,” she whispers as the lights go down. “Thanks for this. It’s been such good fun. You’ve been a doll. And they’re right of course. Perfect, as always.”

  
“And you, sweetheart. Don’t speak too soon though. It’s ain’t over til it’s over. Flint has still got to find a replacement for Levi.”

  
Elizabeth turns back to him with a final wink, rising onto the toes of her shoes and flicking his thigh with the folded fan in her hand as she prepares to make her entrance.

  
“As if that’s going to be difficult.”

 

* * *

 

_Obviously. I mean of-fucking-course. Who else could it have possibly been?_

  
Ross stands offstage, arms folded and resting casually against a strut as he watches the dancers play out their scene and waits for his cue. He almost hadn’t recognized Jim at first, dressed up in Levi’s costume and having entered from the opposite side of the stage, but there’s no mistaking him now as he delivers his performance as if it were meant for him all along.

  
“Well played, Flint,” he mutters under his breath.

  
Jim is dazzling. His performance is flawless, his footwork light and bright and an easy smile on his face.

  
It’s always a risk, putting a principle into a soloist role and ensuring that the other dancers onstage aren’t being outshone. Despite the generosity of Jim’s performance and the space and time he gives the other dancers, he is magnetic and Ross is fairly sure the entire audience feels the same. He has no idea how Jim knows the steps but he doesn’t miss a beat and he can only assume that Flint has spent the last hour in the studio with him frantically going over the choreography.

  
“He’s stupidly good, isn’t he?” Elizabeth whispers. “Told you Flint would sort it.”

  
Ross hums in agreement but he doesn’t take his eyes off the stage. For a split second Ross wonders if maybe he’s too good, if having Jim here in the Company is going to be a hell of a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Even though there are seven principals Ross can’t help but feel that sometimes he’s top of the pack; that the biggest roles could be his because he is, simply put, just a little bit better than the others; but Jim could bulldoze all that if he put himself to it and it leaves Ross feeling unnerved.

  
He shakes his head and tells himself not to be ridiculous. They’re just different, Jim and he; and he knows that he can more than hold his own against him. Jim is almost at the end of his piece now and Ross is pretty sure that the huge grin he has plastered on his face isn’t just for show. It’s hard not to smile watching him, and Ross is happy that Jim has finally had a chance to get on the stage. He’s seen him on most performance nights hanging around backstage and watching from the wings, but he knows how frustrating he’d find it if he were in that position himself.

  
Elizabeth gives his hand a squeeze.

  
“Come on. Last bit, then. Although you could just stay here. We all know who they’ve paid to see.”

  
Ross has to laugh. It’s her show, really. As much fun as he’s having, he’s really just a vessel for her performance and he’s more than happy for her to have the spotlight.

  
“Right,” he chuckles. “I’ll just stand here and see how well you get on without me.”

The applause is still ringing through the house as the curtain finally reaches the floor, and suddenly the whole stage is a mass of squealing dancers. Elizabeth throws herself at him, squashing the huge bouquets in their arms, and he laughs as he picks her up and twirls her around. The curtain call seemed to take an age but he loves them and he’d happily had his moment, chin falling to his chest in a grateful bow as the audience cheered for him.

  
Ross finds himself congratulated by dancer after dancer, Verity planting a huge kiss on his cheek somewhere along the way. Flint wraps him in a tight hug, then Silver; until he finally makes his way over to the guys. Maks picks him up like he weighs nothing, and Ross laughs and squirms away from the river of sweat pouring down his body until another person comes hurtling into his shoulder and wraps him in an ecstatic pair of arms. Ross throws his own around them, squeezing back tightly and feeling his face start to ache from smiling so hard as he watches the celebrations.

  
It’s only when a champagne cork comes shooting past him at point blank range that he pulls back and realises with a start that it’s Jim he’s holding. He looks amazing, flushed and happy and attractive in the tight black and red costume, and Ross is painfully aware that he should take his hands off Jim’s shoulders now but he can’t seem to make himself let go.

  
While they’d been wrapped around each other Jim had been babbling excitedly in his ear, but suddenly they’re both silent and Ross finds himself staring dumbly. He doesn’t miss the way Jim’s eyes flick down to Ross’s lips. It only takes a second, but in that time he realises that the spark he’d convinced himself he’d put out weeks ago is still very, very much alive.

  
Jim’s chest is still heaving lightly and Ross finds himself fighting the urge to brush back the sweaty lock of hair that has worked its way across Jim’s forehead. Just as Jim opens his mouth to say something, Maks comes crashing into Ross’s back and gathers them both up under his wet armpits.

  
“We are celebrating, yes? Go and get changed, come on.”

  
He takes Ross by the wrist and drags him away toward their dressing room. Ross throws one last glance in Jim’s direction, but the moment is long gone and he doesn’t know whether to kiss Maks for having saved him or curse him for the fact he will never know what Jim was going to say.

“You sure? You don’t have to stay long, just for a bit?”

  
Ross sighs but he’s made up his mind. Maks had cracked them all a beer while they cooled down and changed, but this is the point in the evening where Ross usually heads home. He’d rather just go back to his place, shower and get in a decent sleep because despite the fact that Don Q is finished they still have to work tomorrow and the next set of productions is coming up fast.

  
Jim has stuck his head round Ross’s door and invited them to a party at his apartment, but Maks and Vas have already disappeared to their favourite bar. Somehow Jim has found time for a shower already and he looks a little too inviting for Ross’s liking in his clean white t-shirt and faded jeans. He casts an eye over his own tight jeans and dark t-shirt. It’s passable for a party, but he’s made up his mind.  
“I’m gonna take a rain check. Sorry, Jim.”

  
Jim’s shoulders drop but he just picks himself up from where he’s been leaning against the doorframe and pulls his hands out of his pockets.

  
“Suit yourself.” He ambles over to the dressing table and uses a kohl pencil to scribble on a piece of paper. “Here’s my cell number, in case you change your mind.”

  
He nudges it in front of Ross, and leaves him sitting quietly alone.

  
He isn’t sure how long he stares at his own reflection for before he shoves the chair back and reaches for his jacket hanging on the hook behind him and slings his rucksack over his shoulder. He takes one last look in the mirror, frowning at the way the sweat has made his hair curl even more than normal. He reaches for a face wipe to take off the rest of his make up, but then decides against it. He kind of likes the way the smudged black eyeliner makes him look, and figures it goes with his dark outfit anyway.

He leaves the room, but just as he reaches the end of the corridor he stops and turns back, knocking quietly at a door half way down. It cracks open, and Duncan sticks his head through the gap. He looks Ross up and down before seems to relax and opens the door wider to let him in. The room is pretty full, a good number of the corps laughing and drinking in the small space. Ross leans in to Duncan’s ear. 

“Hey man, can you do me a favour?” he asks quietly. He straightens up and raises his eyebrows just enough, but Duncan is quick to catch on to what he wants. 

“Sure. Over here.”

A tall screen screen hides the table, and Ross is astounded at the amount of gear Duncan has managed to get hold of. It’s hardly news that there’s coke floating around back here, but Ross wouldn’t have a clue where to go about actually buying the stuff. He hasn’t even touched it since San Francisco, and even then it was only a couple of lines here and there. He’s never had an addictive personality and he’d decided very quickly that it wasn’t for him, choosing to avoid the late parties and focus on his career instead. But tonight - he doesn’t know what’s got in to him. There’s something about Jim’s unwavering calm that makes Ross feel ridiculously nervous. He’s not proud about doing this but he’s sure that there’s no way he will get through the rest of tonight without a little help.

Duncan hands him a thin metal tube and before he can change his mind he leans over and carefully snorts up one of the lines of white powder on the glass surface, sniffing hard as he stands up again and letting a deep breath out of his mouth. The tingle creeps up his nose and down the back of his throat immediately, and he nods his thanks at Duncan. 

“You staying?”

He holds out a beer in offering to Ross, but Ross just shakes his head and makes a hasty exit before he lets himself get coerced into anything else.

He tucks his phone under his ear as he leaves the building, tapping his feet on the sidewalk and raising his arm to hail a cab as the person picks up on the other end.

  
“Hello?”

  
“Hey, Jim; it’s Ross,” he says as he slides onto the back seat of the car that’s stopped for him. “So listen, I changed my mind, if that’s still alright. Where exactly did you say you were at?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh Ross, you naughty boy. 
> 
> “Merde” is the dancer’s equivalent of the theatrical “Break a leg”. Don’t ask me why - it’s French for “Shit!”
> 
> Sorry for the hiatus, and thanks all for your comments! More coming soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I went away for a bit. Mentally more than physically, but even still, I never intended to take such a long break. I did think about jacking this all in, and most definitely about deleting this fic in particular, but in the words of Ross, ‘There are some things that you just can’t turn off.’   
> So apologies, and here I am!
> 
> It didn’t feel right to finish the year without an update and so, if there’s still anyone out there, here we go. It might not be my finest work, but something is occasionally better than nothing, and hopefully this goes some way to continuing the story and setting myself up for updating more frequently!
> 
> I’d like to thank Silva and Linane in particular for helping out with the details on this one, much love.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter contains some homophobic language and non-graphic descriptions of violence. If you’d like to avoid this section, don’t read further than the end of the party scenes.

The party is loud and far, far bigger than Ross had been expecting. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not that most of the kick from the coke had worn off in the cab before he’d even got here – the typical crappy traffic living up to its reputation and making him a lot later than he’d intended. Still, it’s given him enough time to make up his mind not to try anything on with Jim. He’s going to go, hang out, get to know Jim a little better and head home.  
  
He still feels edgy though, the door to the building buzzing open for him before he’s even given his name and taking the stairs up to the sixth floor three at a time.  
  
At first he’d wondered if he’d even got it right – these people don’t look anything like anyone Ross knows, over-confident, under-intelligent executive jocks and too much polished chrome in the open-plan apartment, but sure enough he spots the back of Jim’s head just before Jim turns and spots Ross looking lost by the crowd in the hallway.  
  
Jim jostles a little closer, nudged into Ross’s shoulder by someone else passing too fast. Ross won’t lie and say he isn’t delighted that Jim made a beeline straight for him, dropping whoever he was mid-conversation with to show Ross in, but he can’t help wishing he’d thought this through a little more thoroughly.  
  
In between leaving the Opera and Ross showing up, Jim has somehow managed time for a shower and maddeningly he looks even better than usual. Ross can practically smell the fruity clean scent of Jim’s skin; his plain white t-shirt stretched tight in all the right places and speckled with spots of damp from his still-wet hair.  
  
It’s not doing anything to help disperse the riot of feeling that has been building in Ross all evening, and he silently curses himself for not saying no to the party and instead suggesting that they maybe go somewhere together a little less obvious and a lot more quiet.  
At the very least, Ross thinks, while Jim steers him toward the kitchen for a drink, he could have at least found time to take the rest of his own make-up off.  
  
“I kinda like it, actually,” Jim says. “Brings out your eyes.”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“The eyeliner?” Jim points vaguely at his face. “You were just saying you wish you’d taken it off.”  
  
“Did I say that out loud?” Ross looks faintly aghast and wonders what the hell else he’s let slip without knowing, making a metal note to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim laughs, “You did. Anyway. What’ll it be?”  
  
“I don’t really drink, to be honest.”  
  
“Aww. You a bit of a lightweight?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.” The two beers he’s had back at the theatre would usually be his limit, but Jim’s jibe has brought out his competitive streak. Ross frowns and scans the array of bottles on the vast marble kitchen island. “Vodka, then.”  
  
“You sure you want to drink vodka with the boy that grew up in Moscow?”  
  
Ross has to admit he has a fair point, but he shrugs and tries to play it cool.  
  
“How bad can it be?” He doesn’t really like it, but the last thing he wants is a raging hangover at work and he knows he’s already made some bad decisions this evening that don’t need to be compounded. “It’s cleaner though, isn’t it. Less trouble tomorrow.”  
  
“Famous last words.” Jim hands him a shot and clinks their glasses together. “ _Za_ _nashu_ _druzjbu_ ,” he says with a smile, before he swiftly knocks his drink back. Ross does the same and grits his teeth, trying to ignore the burn in his throat.  
“Which means?”

“To our friendship,” Jim laughs, and to Ross’s horror he hands him another almost immediately.

“Why is it that I’m starting to get the feeling this was a bad idea?”

“It’s the rules.” Jim ignores him, but flashes a dazzling grin as he holds the slammer up, and Ross realises that resistance is completely futile. “Come on. _Mezhdu_ _pervoy_ _i_ _vtoroy_ _pereryvchik_ _ne_ _bolshoy_!"

Jim’s second drink disappears just as swiftly as the first, and Ross knows he’s going to have to keep up if he doesn’t want to lose face.

“Jesus,” he says, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he wills the vodka down. “And that?”

“Something along the lines of ‘no long breaks allowed between the first and second rounds.’” Jim laughs again, but he puts his empty glass down on the table as he catches sight of Ross’s pained face. “Though maybe you should stick to mixers. Here.”

Jim pours a few fingers of vodka into a glass and follows up with a decent amount of soda. Ross tries to ignore the way the hairs on his arm stand up when Jim passes it over and he accidentally brushes against him.  
  
He looks around for somewhere less crowded to stand, but Jim jerks his head to the side of the room and leads Ross toward a miraculously empty balcony with a neat view of the downtown beyond. Ross automatically leans forward and hangs his arms over the railing to take in the river below them, the dark surface reflecting rippled lights as it quietly runs away to the sea.  
  
“Wow. How the hell did you find this place?”  
  
“Luck, mostly,” Jim muses as he slots his back against the railings next to Ross. “I’d rather have a somewhere of my own but it works pretty well for now. Thankfully these guys have got more money than sense and the rent is stupidly cheap for what it is. I didn’t have much time to find anything. Coming here was kind of a last minute decision.”  
  
“D’you come straight from Moscow?” Ross glances at Jim, trying to ignore the fact that the balcony doesn’t give them much space, and they’re standing far closer together than he’d intended.  
  
“No, actually. I took a couple of months off,” Jim nods at the memory. “I went to Thailand and then I caught up with some friends in Spain. People I used to dance with, obviously. Who the fuck else would I know?” He looks up, and his dimples are unleashed with his smile. “It was good. I needed the break. I’ve been in the same place for twelve years and I’d almost forgotten that there’s a real world out there too. You get me?”  
  
“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean,” Ross murmurs in understanding. “So you hadn’t sorted out where you were going to go before you left? Actually - how come you decided to leave anyway? I know it’s none of my business, but it’s just that a lot of people would give their right arm to get into the Bolshoi. And yet… well, here you are. You don’t have to tell me if it’s something you’d rather not say; I’m just curious.”  
  
“Honestly?” Jim takes a long drink and shakes his head slowly. “I know a lot of people might not get this but – well… I don’t know, I think you might. I just—” His shoulders slump, and he hits the heel of his hand against the metal behind him, a frustrated echo ringing out through the dark. “I got _bored_ , Ross. If I’d stayed I could probably have told you the line-up for every season for the rest of my career. It became so predictable.”  
  
He shrugs, shaking his head helplessly.  
  
“And the atmosphere is just… It’s ridiculous. The way things are done, I mean. For a long time I didn’t question it because I more or less grew up with it and it’s all I’ve ever really known, but I reached the point where I realized I seriously didn’t like it.”  
  
Ross watches the sharp outline of Jim’s neck shifting as he swallows hard, lowering his voice as if he’s worried he might be overheard.  
  
“I don’t want anyone thinking I’m ungrateful or stupid. I know what an opportunity I was given. Yeah, the ballet is amazing; yes, the masters are incredible and all the prestige and all that but… I just felt like I’d lost so much of what it is that made me want to be a dancer. I felt like I was being shoved in this tiny little pigeon-hole and I’m just not _done_ , you know?”  
  
His eyes search Ross’s, sharply focused and still the clearest blue Ross has ever seen.  
  
“I do appreciate that I wouldn’t have got to where I am now without it,” Jim says, “but there’s so much new stuff I want to try, all these re-interpretations of classic stuff and a heap of abstract shit like you and the guys have been doing and I just wasn’t going to get a chance to do it.”  
  
“That makes sense. Totally.”  
  
And Ross does understand exactly what Jim means. That there’s so much more to what they both want than the comfort of working in a prestigious institution; that it’s impossible to create believable art without the time for inspiration and the freedom to create it.  
  
“And I don’t think you’re either of those things,” he blurts. “Ungrateful, I mean. I think you’re… you’re… brilliant.”  
  
_Fuck’s_ _sake_ , _Ross_.  
  
He waves uselessly with his hands, hoping it’ll excuse him from having to elaborate, trying desperately of a way to change the subject.  
  
“You could have gone anywhere though. You must have had a ton of offers.”  
  
“I may have had a few, yeah,” Jim shrugs modestly.  
  
“So why Boston?”  
  
“Oh, you know.” Jim smiles and lolls against the railing at his back. “The balmy climate. And I mean the accent is just charming, isn’t it?”  
  
“Right,” Ross wipes his nose on the back of his hand, having almost snorted half his drink out of it. “Traveling sounds nice though. I haven’t been anywhere for ages. Not that hasn’t been for work, anyway. I wanted to see more of Europe when I was there a few years ago, but I didn’t get much further than the cities we were touring in.”  
  
Jim’s grin widens, first one corner of his mouth pulling back, then the other, until his deep dimples appear all over again and his eyes twinkle like he’s got a secret.  
  
“I saw you. In Amsterdam. I was there that night you danced the swan.”  
  
Ross takes a step forward in surprise. He knows when Jim is talking about, though how he managed to catch him on one of the only nights Ross danced it, he doesn’t know. It was years ago now when they’d performed Bourne’s all-Male Swan Lake, and he was still doing a soloist stint with the Dutch National Ballet then but he was lucky enough to be part of the C-cast, getting to perform it twice during the run.  
  
“Couple of us went over for the weekend and decided to catch a show. Lucky I did. By all accounts you blew the other guy out of the water,” Jim says without a hint of sarcasm. “You’re really good, Ross. Same goes for tonight. Best Basilio I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Ross doesn’t know where to look, so he makes a vague noise of thanks and hides his face behind his glass. Jim must sense his embarrassment, because he too turns and leans his arms over the railing to swatch the slow drift of the water below.  
  
“So come on. What do you do in your spare time? Aside from dancing?”  
  
“I— I don’t know,” Ross mumbles. “I guess I don’t really have any. Free time, I mean,” he shrugs, but he finds himself backtracking when Jim’s face falls into what looks a lot like disapproval. “I like being outside though.”  
  
And it’s true. He dances too much, he knows that. He could take any number of weekends off and spend far longer hanging out in bars and clubs like the rest of them, but the fact is that he worries too much about losing his place and his stride if he starts all that now.  
That’s not the only side to him, though. He likes to take any opportunity he can to walk, catching the train out into the country or going for long hikes in the hills or the northern beaches on the increasingly rare occasion he visits home. Being in the open air feels like a way of rebelling against having spent so much of his life stuck inside a theatre or practice room.  
  
“Yeah,” Jim smiles. “I feel you.”  
  
“What about you then? What do you do?” Ross asks, feeling a little defensive and pissed that he’s rapidly sounding so unbelievably boring.  
“I paint,” Jim says nonchalantly, a wry smile plays at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Really?” Ross’s eyebrows fly down to form a hard line across his face. “No offense, but you don’t exactly strike me as the type. What do you paint?”  
  
“Colours!” Jim explodes with laughter. “Last year, I only used green. The year before that, white. Plenty of inspiration for that in a Russian winter.”  
  
And Ross laughs too, because Jim is not only ridiculous but also funny and not at all what Ross expected him to be like.  
  
Jim takes Ross’s empty glass and ducks round the door to get them a refill. Ross can’t help but watch him, bouncing on the balls of his feet on the concrete slab below them in anticipation of Jim’s return.  
  
Despite their hard evening – twice as hard for Jim, Ross suspects, having just learnt the part and then smashed it out of the park – Jim still looks as fresh as if he’s just strolled into warm-up. Now that he comes to think of it, Ross has never seen him fazed, not since the first time he fell into the studio, anyway.  
  
Jim takes his time making drinks for a bunch of people before he gets their own; takes a pile of jackets off a bunch of new arrivals.  
Ross’s fingers flick fast in turn against the pad of his thumb, backward and forward like a scale. His nervous twitch.  
  
Why did Jim have to be a good guy, too?  
  
Ross can handle having a professional crush. But this?  
  
Jim has his arm slung casually around someone’s shoulder while he talks, smiling, eyes bright as he makes some quip or other, and with a sharp tug in his gut Ross realises he’s actually jealous.  
  
He wishes he could have that with Jim. They touch all the time but it’s for work, hands in just the right place to lift and not get hurt, and not at all anything to do with emotion or fun or—  
  
Ross breathes out hard and decides not to think about all the other situations he’d like to be touching Jim in.

 

* * *

 

Jim returns just as Ross is taking the opportunity to stretch out, his leg muscles rebelling now in the cooling night air.  
  
“You hurting?” he asks, handing over his drink, but Ross is pretty sure it’s more of an observation than a question. Jim must have danced enough roles for twenty-odd nights in a row to know that hurt doesn’t quite cover it.  
  
“S’alright,” Ross shrugs, hoping to come off somewhere between brave and modest. “Nothing compared to how George must be feeling after that fucking massive knock he took to his knee on his way out of the Second. You see it?”  
  
“Damn, I missed it.” Jim looks genuinely disappointed, lazily rolling himself round so that he is facing Ross again, chewing on a straw caught between his teeth. “What’s the deal with George, anyway?”

“You want me to actually answer that?” Ross chuckles. “Well, that’s a goddamn can of worms. You wanna be more specific?”

“Nah, I just…,” Jim gives a small grin and wriggles his eyebrows, a wicked gold flash that leaves Ross thinking there’s far more going on behind those innocent eyes than he might have first believed. “He’s a little bit…” He breaks off, head cocked thoughtfully as he searches for the best word.

“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean. Why? Is he bothering you?” Ross asks more seriously, turning just slightly to watch Jim watching the city lights, trying to see if there is any tell-tale sign of a deeper undercurrent to Jim’s question.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I know I didn’t exactly arrive at at the ideal time but I thought he might be a little less… _frosty_ by now.” Jim scrunches up his nose while he tries to find a word, and Ross can tell even he’s finding it hard to be nice. “I mean like tonight, I was trying to talk to him after the show and do you know the only thing he said? ‘You missed your mark’. Come on, man, like I just learnt the damn piece five minutes ago. Give me a break. Is he always like that?”

Ross sighs. He feels pretty terrible that Jim has been having a hard time getting settled. He can’t exactly say he’s been as welcoming as he could have been towards him either, though he is fairly sure his reasons are entirely different to George’s - and at least Ross can say he’s trying.

“Listen, I’m sorry we haven’t been better, all of us. We’re all still juggling how things work without Dan and Artem, and honestly it’s been a little hectic. Flint has really rammed a lot into this winter, and with you not being in _Don_ , we haven’t spent as much time with you as we should have. It’ll be better now that it’s finished though, promise. And as for George, well; I think it’s part family privilege, part short-guy syndrome – not that there’s anything wrong with being shorter, obviously, I didn’t mean—”

 _Fuck_ _it_ , _Poldark_ , _seriously_ , _stop_ _talking_ , he thinks again, almost choking on his words and his drink as he tries to take them back, suddenly painfully aware of the way the top of Jim’s head only comes up to his eyebrows.

“It’s fine,” Jim laughs at Ross’s obvious discomfort. “I’m not gonna win any prizes for my height.”

“Sure. Sorry. But listen, don’t worry about Georgie. He’s been here longer than any of us but he’s never gotten good at accepting that people arrive all the time, and nearly all of them are better than he will ever be. To his credit, he works really hard. He tries and he tries but he just…” Ross frowns, wondering how best to explain it, hands waving wildly through the air and his drink sloshing around in his glass. He knows he’s starting to sound drunk, but the fact is that he’s too drunk to do anything about it.

“The thing is. Dancing, right; you either have it or you don’t. At the end of the day you could spend your whole life practising in the studio; but if it isn’t _in_ you, if you just don’t have that flair then…” He takes a long swig of the remaining drink and swallows it slowly. “George is good, but he will never be great like you—”

Ross’s face flushes deep red as he realises what he’s said, stammering as he tries to correct himself.

“— or, you know, or like lots of other people I could name; and he knows it and he hates it. He’ll come round to you eventually; he always does, in his way. I just wouldn’t go expecting a Christmas card.”

 

* * *

   
“D.C,” Jim says.

Ross likes the way Jim narrows his eyes. They pull upward and out, just like his smile. Ross moves his head to the side under pretence of considering Jim’s guess, but really he just wants to get closer, and this brings him just about level to appreciate the solid bulk of Jim’s bicep as it grazes against his own.   
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Ahh, jeez. East Hampton?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Ross laughs. “I’m not some kind of rich kid, if that’s what you think.”  
  
“Alright, alright. I give up.”  
  
“Oregon. Albany?” Ross offers. “Nothing special. I grew up there, anyhow. I’ve moved around a fair bit since I left home, but you know how it is with dancing.”  
  
“Sure.” Jim gives a small, one-shouldered shrug. “I never quite got round to moving much, myself.”  
  
“Making up for lost time now though, hey?” Ross smiles encouragingly. “And nowhere I’ve been has really felt like somewhere I was going to stay put. Not until now, at least. I still Dad’s place ‘home’, if that helps. I’ve hardly been anywhere exciting for any kind of period of time. My dad though,” Ross swallows and tries to relax against the cool metal bars behind him, “My dad’s British, actually. Moved over here in his twenties, met my mom, never went back.”  
  
“Ahh,” Jim makes a long satisfied sound. “So that’s why half the time you sound like you swallowed a library book?”  
  
“Maybe,” Ross snorts. “His accent did kind of rub off, I guess.”  
  
“That’s cool, though. You still got family over there?”  
  
“Nah. Nobody worth seeing, anyway. I’ve never been, actually. My Uncle came over and joined him, they have a law firm back home with Verity’s brother Francis.”  
  
“Wait – Verity’s brother? I thought she was your sister?”  
  
“No, my cousin. She kind of looks it though, doesn’t she? I guess we’re more like brother and sister. My—” Ross looks up fast and wonders if he’s already said too much, but Jim is watching him with a gentle, open expression, and Ross decides against his better judgement to tell him anyway.  
  
“My mom died when I was seven, and after that I spent pretty much all my time with Verity and Frankie,” he says. “My dad did his best, but I don’t think he really knew what to do with me.”  
  
“Man, I’m sorry. If it makes it any better, it’s just me; my parents both died when I was three. I don’t even remember them.”  
  
“Wow. That’s hard, Christ. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It was a long time ago, and I’ve never really known any different,” Jim shrugs. “People ask me all the time if I miss them and I find it hard to tell them that I miss the idea of them more than I actually miss them, you know?”  
  
Ross nods and rolls his glass backward and forward between his palms.  
  
“And you know what, sometimes I think I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for what happened,” Jim continues. “My folks ran a bar and truck stop in Iowa. I can’t help thinking that ballet wasn’t something that would have been on their radar. Not that I wouldn’t trade my life for having them around, obviously, but it is what it is. I lucked out. I got bounced around a bit in the beginning, but it wasn’t so bad. One of the couples that fostered me were dancers. They left it too late to have kids of their own, so they looked after a bunch of us for a few years. She used to dance with us at home, and from there… She knew some people, they knew some people… and suddenly there’s me age eleven, flying to school in Russia.”  
  
“Wow,” Ross breathes. “I guess… maybe it’s a little similar, what happened. I only started after Mom— I mean Verity wanted to go to dance class, and Dad just made me go along with her to give me something else to think about. It’s weird how things turn out.”  
  
“And what does he think about it now, you dancing for a living?”  
  
“I think he’s just pleased he can finally stop sending me money so I can feed myself,” he grins. “I dunno. I’d say he’s still half-confused, and half in awe of it all. When I was a kid he was just happy that I’d found something to keep me busy, but when I told him I wanted to move away - I guess that was really hard for him.”  
  
Ross tries not to dwell on it, how selfish he had been back then, without having any idea of it at the time, but it gives him a sharp kick in the gut all the same.  
  
“I didn’t get to see him nearly as much as he might have liked, and even when I did see him it was like were were in different worlds.” Ross motions to his legs, his feet. “You can’t just… turn this off.”  
  
“No. No, you can’t.”  
  
“I’d go visit and he’d still be talking about me going into to work with him, when all I wanted to do was practice all weekend. It was hard for him to understand, hard for me to explain. His family were pretty traditional, and as far as they were – are — concerned, dancing just isn’t something guys do. His parents would call and give him a load of shit for it. Dad’s cool, generally he told them to fuck off, but I think if I’d told him at that point that I’d changed my mind it would have been a hell of a relief for him.”  
  
“I’m pretty familiar with that,” Jim says quietly to his sneakers. Ross can’t help but think in that moment he looks sad more than anything else, and it takes all his restraint to stop himself reaching out and lifting Jim’s chin up with his fingers.  
  
“Russia - it wasn’t the easiest place to be… like me.” Jim looks up, rueful and hopeful and maybe even a little harder-set along the jawline. “The closet is a small place to live when there’s a few of you trying not to be dragged out of there too forcefully.”  
  
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought about that.” Ross gulps guiltily. “Like us, you mean,” he adds for good measure. Might as well state the obvious.  
  
“Right,” Jim smiles, and immediately looks much more like his normal self. “It’s fine. I mean it was fine. Most of the time. I don’t mind. It’s not like I wanted to strap on a pair of heels and swan down the Main Street. It would have just been nice not to feel like I had to look over my shoulder, like I didn’t have the freedom to be whoever I am. And it’s not just being gay. Dancing over there kind of goes the other way for guys, like you somehow wear the tights to prove your superior masculinity, or some shit. Well, fuck that,” he snorts, reaching behind his ear for a cigarette that Ross has somehow missed until now.  
  
“You smoke?” he blurts.  
  
“Sure. Like, one a month, maybe, but apparently that counts. Want one?”  
  
“No, god. No. Doesn’t that fuck up your lungs? I mean, exercise-wise?”  
  
“No more than whatever you took before you got here,” Jim counters coolly.  
  
Ross would stagger backward but he’s already up against the railings, instead gaping wide-eyed and terrified as Jim lights up and places the cigarette gently between his lips.

  
“How’d you know?”  
  
“Cool your beans, Ross,” he murmurs, letting a long stream of smoke drift out into the black air beyond. “Nothing obvious. You were jumpy as fuck when you got here and talking ten to the dozen. Seeing as I haven’t heard you say more than three words in a row in the last month, I figure something is up. Don’t worry. I’m not about to call you out, whatever it was. We all have our little vices. Though I have to say I’m surprised. Or maybe just curious. You don’t seem like the type to break the rules.”  
  
“Coke,” Ross stammers. “It was only a line. Honestly, you won’t believe me but it’s literally the second time I’ve had the damn stuff in my entire life, and all it seems to have done is give me the verbal shits. Ask Duncan, if you want. I just thought maybe it might make me—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “This is stupid. Never mind.”  
  
“It’s alright. I believe you. Sometimes even the dumbest things seem smart at the time, especially if the temptation is right there in front of you. Fuck knows, there’s enough of that stuff floating around. I’m amazed nobody has been caught out yet.”  
  
Jim smiles that damn smile again, and Ross nearly falls head first over the balcony.  
  
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, wincing at how pathetic he sounds, “only I wasn’t really sure how to. You’re kinda… confusing.”  
“Yeah, I’ve heard that a few times,” Jim laughs, hopping up and reaching out for Ross’s newly-empty glass. “Come on. Time for one more.”

* * *

  
Ross watches Jim again, more openly this time, though whether it’s growing confidence or sliding inhibitiaons, he can’t say for sure. Jim catches his eye through the window and smiles, but then he hands out smiles like candy to kids, and as much as he would like to say it makes Ross feel special, he can’t be sure if Jim is feeling even a fraction of what Ross is feeling himself, or just being an all-round freindly kind of guy.  
  
“Here,” Jim hands him the refill with a grin. “Thought I’d treat you to my specialty.”  
  
Ross peers at the clear liquid inside and takes a bemused sip.  
  
“It tastes… exactly the same?”  
  
“Ah. That’s where you’re wrong.” Jim produces a paper cocktail umbrella with a flourish and drops it into the drink. “Ta-dah! One Hot Hawk. Count yourself lucky. Not everybody gets one of those.”  
  
“Well fuck me; aren’t I the special one.” Ross feels just on the right side of drunk, suffused with a pleasant buzz from vodka and good company and his mouth seems to ask without his say-so. “Are you trying to seduce me or something?”  
  
“Is that something you’d want?” Jim shoots back.  
  
Ross blinks fast and for a long moment they just look at each other; Jim’s calm, direct gaze at total odds with the way Ross’s heart is hammering in his chest.  
  
“I think,” he whispers, and from somewhere inside the tinkle of a breaking glass mingles with a high peal of laughter, footsteps ricocheting off the fire escape somewhere below. A million tiny noises and all of them no competition for the warm sound of Jim’s silence, his hand thrown down on the table and patiently waiting for Ross to respond.  
  
It would be so easy, so easy to just—  
  
“Actually,” Ross says, clearing his throat and setting his glass down on the ledge; shoving his hands into his pockets, fists tightly balled. “I think I should probably call it a night.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
It’s not so much a reply as a gut-punch, but for which one of them, Ross couldn’t say. Disappointment washes over Jim’s face before he trains his expression back into his perpetual relaxed smile, though Ross can see that a little of the sparkle in his eyes is gone and he hates to admit that leaving is actually the absolute last thing he wants to do right now.  
  
“It’s just that… If I stay, I’ll drink, and I make bad decisions when I’m drunk.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Jim’s voice is quiet, and Ross could swear that all the noise of the party has vanished. It’s just them, then, Ross scared with shaking hands and Jim, poised and beautiful and utterly beguiling. “Such as?” Jim asks.  
  
Jim is close. Ross has little regard for personal space, having spent most of his life pressed up against other people but he is suddenly aware that Jim is in his, close enough for Ross to see the skin of his neck flicker with the pulse beneath, close enough to see that Jim isn’t looking at his eyes so much as watching the way Ross’s breath slides over his parted lips.  
  
The kiss isn’t electric, but the quiet hum that Ross has felt in his chest all evening is suddenly a roar in his ears as Jim’s smooth curved mouth opens up against his own. Jim sucks Ross’s lower lip between his own before he dips his tongue into Ross’s mouth, the warm drag a strange contrast to the lingering numbness of Ross’s gums.  
  
Jim makes a tiny contented noise and Ross finds himself bringing his hands up to Jim’s face, tracing the contours of his jaw as he pulls him deeper into the kiss. His back greets the wall with a gentle bump and he realises Jim has maneuvered him across the balcony, bringing his own hands down from Ross’s neck to circle his waist, fingers roaming purposefully down the small of Ross’s back and digging insistently into the back pockets of his jeans.  
  
The whole city could disappear but in that very moment Ross wouldn’t have a clue, lost in Jim’s mouth and the way he tastes and the way his fingers wind curious and intent in the sweat-curled hair at the base of Ross’s neck. Jim’s hips nudge into his own but he doesn’t stop him, not knowing if he’s breathing too hard or if he’s stopped breathing altogether, drowning in the wild idea that Jim could possibly want this as much as he does.  
  
There’s a delicacy to Jim’s strong and lithe body, the flats of Ross’s palms counting ribs and the breathless hollows in between as they slide down his sides, itching to be rid of the millimeter of fabric that separates Ross’s fingers from the smooth skin he knows lies just underneath.  
  
He reaches the hem and sneaks his hand under Jim’s t-shirt, flicking his tongue against Jim’s when he finally gets to touch his body the way he’s been craving. His thumb traces its way upward until he finds the sharp ridge of Jim’s hip, warm under the circles Ross rubs into it.  
  
“Oh,” he gasps.  
  
Jim pulls away and presses their foreheads together, his eyes still closed as he whispers against Ross’s mouth.  
  
“I’ll make them all leave. I’d send the entire damn street out of town if you tell me right now that you want to be alone with me.”  
There’s an undertone to Jim’s voice that Ross is sure he hasn’t heard him use before, something shaky, low, almost deliciously predatory; and it leaves Ross in no doubt that he wants.  
  
“I…” Ross hesitates, but eventually he pulls away, not quite able to look at him. “I can’t. I’m really sorry, Jim. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just—”  
  
How can he tell him that if they go to Jim’s room that he won’t want to, won’t be able to stop himself?  
  
How can he come off sounding anything but insane if he admits that what he’s feeling for Jim already goes too far beyond being satisfied with a quick lay?  
  
He doesn’t want it to to be like this, rushed and halfway to wasted and set against a soundtrack of people hammering on Jim’s door and jeering through the walls.  
  
Before Jim can persuade him otherwise, Ross practically bolts through the door and retrieves his stuff from the massive pile of coats and bags. He can hear someone somewhere behind him calling his name, calling for him to wait; but he’s already halfway to the stairs before he realises what a jerk he’s being.  
  
Ross wheels round, breathless, nearly smacking straight into Jim who has apparently been hot on his heels.  
  
“Can I buy you breakfast?” It’s not exactly what he’d intended to say, but it’ll do; Ross just needs to find a way to un-fuck what he’s just fucked up, and what better way can there be but food?  
  
“I—Huh?”  
  
“Waffles? Bacon? Enough syrup to waterboard George in?” Ross breathes out hard and takes Jim’s hand in his, just gently, subtly, but enough. “I like you, Jim. Like, a lot. And I think if we’re going to do this, then it might be a good idea to start at the beginning. I don’t want to do anything that you might regret tomorrow. If there’s this… thing between us, then I want to make sure we do it right. We still have to work together, you know?” He pushes an errant hair back off his forehead, and realises he’s nervous, the slightest sweat beading at his hairline. “Let’s just start with breakfast. Tomorrow, just you and me. What do you say?”  
  
“You mean like a date?” Jim’s smile splits his face as Ross nods, and now it’s his turn to look a little off-balance. “I’d like that,” he says, reddening and suddenly very much younger. “I’d like that a lot.”  
  
“Awesome.” Ross squeezes Jim’s hand fast, just once and lets him go. “I’ll call you in the morning, alright?”

* * *

  
A stone skitters off the curb and bounces against a parked car. Ross searches the sidewalk for something else to occupy his feet, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders raised against the late night chill, though there’s a heat in his chest which he knows has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the faint scent of Jim which has imprinted on his skin, the tingle of his arm under his jacket where they’d bumped against each other, the soda-sweet, smoke-sour taste of Jim’s mouth on his own.

He knows he should be in bed by now and that he’s more than likely going to regret staying up until this time come the morning, but the subway doesn’t quite get him all the way home at this time of night, and he’s taken the most scenic route he can find to finish his journey by foot. Most of his friends think he’s weird for walking over the city, but he’s always walked everywhere and tonight of all nights he needs the time to wind down, to process everything that’s happened; and as he swings off the street and into Olmsted Park, all he can think about is how much he’s looking forward to breakfast.  
  
His smile is indelible, stretching across his face until it almost hurts, but Ross couldn’t care less if he tried.

“Hey fag.”  
  
A deep voice echoes out from the dark path behind him.  
  
Ross rolls his eyes and exhales slowly, keeping up his pace and deciding to ignore it. It’s not exactly the first time he’s been called that, but it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, prickling with anger. Cutting across the park may be the aesthetic choice but he’s aware it comes with its own risks at this time of night, and it seems his gamble hasn’t paid off.  
  
He walks on but the shouting continues, and he can hear whoever is behind him getting closer. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder. There are two of them, boots and baseball jackets, thick-bodied and skin-headed.  
  
Ross weighs up his options. He could continue to ignore them and hope they get bored, but he knows there’s no way that’s going to happen. He could turn and fight, but he’s outnumbered and there’s little chance he’ll come of on top even if he is a pretty good sparrer.  
  
He realises that he has little other choice than to make a run for it. He has no idea how fast they are but he’s fairly sure he’ll be faster, even if he has had a few drinks and he’s still tired and aching from the performance earlier in the evening.  
  
Without giving them any warning, he grabs at the shoulder straps of his bag, gripping them tight against his body as he launches himself forward. He’s hoping his fitness and the fact he took off first will give him the edge.  
  
It’s maybe a ten minute walk from here to the park gate, and a further three minutes to the apartment. He reckons at more or less full pelt he can do it without stopping in less than half the time, and there’s almost no chance of them following him once he’s back on the street, even at this time of night.   
  
He’s not gone more than a few hundred yards before he feels something hurtling through the air far too close to his ear for comfort and a beer bottle lands on the ground just in front of him, exploding in a wild shower of jagged shards. He skids to a frantic stop, raising his hands across his face to protect himself from the flying glass splinters.  
  
Heavy footsteps are at his back within seconds and he breathes out hard, knowing that the fight he’s tried to avoid has finally caught up with him – literally.  
  
“I said, hey fag,” the nearest one spits, ambling closer.  
  
Ross can smell him, sweaty and rank and it makes him even angrier. He draws himself up, relying on the bulk of his muscle to make himself look bigger and turns to face them. His eyes are flat and cold as he looks them over.  
  
“Sorry,” he says calmly. “I thought you were talking to your buddy.”  
  
“Screw you, gay boy. Shit, are you wearing make-up? Are you fucking into drag or what?”  
  
He’d forgotten about the eyeliner. It’s nothing he and half the guys in the Company haven’t heard before. He knows he should try to run again, now that they’re most likely out of ammo, but tonight Ross is so tightly wound that there’s little more that he can do other than sling his rucksack onto the ground beside him to at least give him the freedom to move in what is inevitably about to unfold.  
  
The second man comes over now, pushing past his friend and giving Ross’s shoulder a sharp shove as he looks down at the bag, his attention caught by Ross’s shoes still stashed in the pocket on the back.  
  
“Are they fucking ballet shoes? What are you, some fucking fairy?”  
  
“Takes one to know one apparently.”  
  
“Screw you. You learning to bend over so you can get a dick further up your ass?”  
  
Ross knows he is making this far, far worse; but he doesn’t like his chances either way, and he’d much rather go down with a decent fight on his part than rolling over and taking it. He’s always had a filthy temper, but with a few drinks under his belt he’s downright mouthy; explosive and merciless and he has no intention of stopping now.  
  
“Sounds like you know all about it. Maybe you wanna give us all some tips.”  
  
The man is quick, but Ross is quicker. Just as he raises his arm to strike, Ross darts his fist out in a sharp jab to his solar plexus, stepping up with his body weight into the strike and catching him totally off guard, using his other hand to punch upwards at his nose as his would-be attacker doubles over gasping.  
  
Ross takes his chance to take off again; but just as he turns he feels a pair of hands catch his biceps and suddenly his arms are pinned behind his back by the second man. Ross struggles, trying to free himself but the guy is stronger than Ross had given him credit for and he’s held tightly, watching as the man he punched finally catches his breath and straightens up, blood streaming down his chin.  
  
“You little shit,” he grunts, but before Ross can respond an agonizing pain erupts at the back of his head and he falls to his knees, white lights flashing behind his eyes before his world fades to black.

* * *

Laughter drifts to his ears from somewhere behind him. It’s dark and for a moment Ross has no idea where he is. He feels something bounce off the back of his head, a bottle cap, landing with a soft clink on the ground next to him. All of a sudden he is filled with the notion that he needs to get away, and fast. 

He pulls himself up onto his elbows, the pain in his head nearly blinding, dragging himself forward and trying to co-ordinate his feet so he can stand up. A heavy weight pushes down on the small of his back, causing him to sprawl onto his stomach in the mud.  
  
“I didn’t say you could get up.”  
  
Ross tries to wriggle free but he’s held tight by the man’s foot.  
  
“Lea’ me alone,” he groans into the damp earth, fingers scraping uselessly against the slick ground.  
  
“Now where would be the fun in that? You still need to apologize to my buddy here about your behaviour back there.”  
  
“Nah, you’re right,” Ross mumbles. He’s completely screwed now, and he knows it; but he lifts his head as best he can and says it anyway. “I am sorry. Sorry he’ll never know what it’s like to get laid. Fuck knows he couldn’t get anyone else to hang out with him, and you probably can’t even get it up.”  
  
The last thing he remembers is the dark shadow of a boot as it connects with his face.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the slightly slow start but this little fic has snowballed into something longer than I’d intended, and I needed to get in a fair bit of background for the rest of it to make sense! Thanks for reading! X


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